


The Serpent and the Lion (redux)

by penswordia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Eventual Romance, F/M, M/M, Original Character Death(s), Slow Burn, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-07 03:54:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 87,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4248396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penswordia/pseuds/penswordia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say love is a bridge between two people. How, then, do two very different people, from entirely different worlds, think to start?</p><p>Brick by brick, board by board, and memory by memory...</p><p>...some bridges are easier to build than others.</p><p>Why would a Gryffindor and a Slytherin ever fall in love? Why indeed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Hello all! Thought I would revisit an old piece of mine, now that I had some time to write and flesh out different plot points I didn't quite get to originally. There are some parts trimmed from other hp stories that I've written in the past, like 'Chasing the Dragon', so don't worry, I'm not stealing chunks out of other ff's, (well, I suppose I am, but since I wrote them to begin with...?)

This version is much longer, and hopefully, an improvement. I write to improve, so if you have the time, any and all reviews are very much appreciated! 

Official disclaimer: This is JK Rowling's fantastic sandbox. I'm playing in it. :)  
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**Year One.**

There were many things Katie Bell promised herself she would never forget.

She would never forget her first broom. She would never forget her first ride on a roller coaster, or throwing up her entire lunch by the ferris wheel afterward. She would never forget her first caramel apple at the fair with her brothers (and losing a baby tooth in the caramel) or the first time her father took her fishing, the excitement of the twitching pole and her father's proud smile when she pulled in her first fish.

And she would never forget standing on Platform 9 and ¾ for the very first time, waiting for the Hogwarts Express to arrive. She was holding tightly to her father’s hand, peering around the platform, squeezing it every so often for reassurance. Due to her mother’s insistence, they were very early- she’d only seen a few other students pushing trolleys with long-suffering owls peering out from their cages, hooting- the muggles raised their eyebrows and gave them a wide berth. 

Here on Platform 9 and ¾, there were only wizarding ilk- Katie recognized a few wands sticking out from pockets and cloaks. Students were pushing their trunks along on trolleys- a few were dragging them across the station, looking as if they regretted packing them so full.

Katie’s own trunk was stuffed to the brim. Her mother had already scolded her for jumping on it to get it to close and in the end, her brother Mason had resorted to five different locking charms to get it shut. When she asked him how she was supposed to get it open again, he'd shrugged and said one of her professors could set it right.

At the top of the trunk was her wand, purchased two weeks ago at Olivander’s (willow and phoenix feather, 11 inches, surprisingly springy). Katie suspected her mother had packed it away to remove temptation as Katie had, accidentally, dyed her hair orange the week before. Her mother had been able to set it right...eventually. Her father had commented that it looked like her head was on fire. Mason had said she looked like an escaped clown from a very sad circus. Mox had asked her exactly what spell she had been trying to cast in the first place, to which Katie had no real answer.

Her eldest brother Mox was holding the birthday present he'd given her last month- a small calico kitten named Sophie who had fallen asleep in his arms on the journey. 

Looking down, Mox winked at her. “Kiran’s sorry he couldn’t make it today, but he sends his best…and some homemade candies. They're in your trunk....somewhere.” Kiran was Mox’s boyfriend who, besides being a wonderful cook, was also very wonderful to Katie. Katie thought of him fondly as a ‘bonus brother’ that knew how to braid hair and was willing to discuss boys.

“Almost wish I was going myself!” exclaimed Katie's father, looking around. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man that towered over most of the other fathers on the platform.

Morganna Bell her eyes before stooping down to hug Katie. "Have fun at school, Pumpkin, and mind your marks," she said. When her mother straightened up, there were tears in her eyes.

"Yeah, _Pumpkin_ ," echoed Mason.

"Shut up, flobberbrains," Katie told her brother.

"Now, dear-" said Katie's father, awkwardly patting his wife's back as she broke into full-fledged tears.

"I just can't believe our youngest is all grown up and heading to Hogwarts!" said her mother, wiping at her eyes. "Seems like only yesterday our little Pumpkin was learning to walk, wandering around the house in nappies and trying to ride the dog-"

Mason was turning red in the effort not to laugh. Mox rolled his eyes, having gone through a similar embarrassment his first year.

"I'll send lots of owls, Mum, I promise!" interrupted Katie, horrified at the idea of her mother launching into a soliloquy of all the things Katie had ever done in diapers, (a subject upon which she could seemingly talk for hours) in front of the whole platform.

"You know, I never do tire of this place," said her father, looking fondly around as he continued to pat his still-sobbing wife. "What d’ya think, Kathryn, can I hide away in your suitcase?"

“Sure, Dad!” said Katie, beaming up at him. 

“Yeah, if you can fit,” muttered Mason, dragging said suitcase towards the edge of the platform.

Just then, the Hogwarts Express pulled up, ruffling Mason's hair- an impressive, gleaming train with smoke billowing behind it in great gray puffs. Katie felt her stomach clench, and unconsciously reached up and squeezed her father's hand. He smiled down at her. 

"I'm not certain Hogwarts could handle you, dear," said her mother, wiping at her eyes. 

Reluctantly, Katie had to agree. Her father, a muggle, had gotten himself into plenty of magical trouble without benefit of actual magic. Once, he'd gotten his hands on a bottle of Elantine's Everlast glue, and they'd spent an hour on the Magical Malady hotline trying to sort it out. This was to say nothing of the sort of mischief he'd gotten himself into when he experimented with Mox's beanstalk kit, though the hole in the roof had eventually been patched up and the neighbors, thankfully, were out of town on holiday. Still, he had received a rather nasty letter from the Ministry, which he'd promptly taped to the fridge and beamed whenever it was mentioned.

"And don't forget to send us packages from Honeydukes," said her father, his eyes gleaming at the thought of fizzing whizbees, chocolate cauldrons, and long loops of candy floss. Katie could remember receiving them all by the boxful from her brothers on holidays, and she and her father had made themselves sick on more than one occasion on Bernie Bott's Every Flavor Beans.

"Hogsmeade isn't until third year, Dad," said Mason, as their father leaned down to hug and kiss Katie, too.

I wish you both were coming with me," said Katie quietly, feeling the first acute pains of being without her family. Mox was four years out of Hogwarts while Mason had graduated only last year and had recently been hired by Gringotts as a curse-breaker, much to her mother's chagrin. 

Katie, who had taken her parents by surprise relatively late in life, would be attending Hogwarts without the aid and comfort of her siblings.

"Don't worry, you'll have loads of fun," said Mason, hugging her too. "We did."

"Maybe _too_ much fun, in your case," mused Mox, raising an eyebrow at his brother.

“Filch never proved anything,” muttered Mason in a sing-song murmur out of the corner of his mouth.

Mox ruffled her hair before kissing her on the brow. “Don't forget to write. Kiran and I will want to hear all about your first week.”

“Now, let's get you settled!” said Jack Bell, and hefted her trunk onto the train, making exaggerated motions that indicated the process was breaking his back and making his daughter giggle. Really, the trunk was easy for her father to lift- Jack Bell was a tall, hulking man, broad-shouldered and muscular, and Katie thought her childhood moniker for him, 'Papa Bear', was still quite appropriate.

Katie stashed Sophie on the seat next to her and put the kitten's carrying basket under the seat while her father made sure her heavy trunk was securely stationed in one of the overhead bins. The train was still relatively empty, and Katie had a compartment all to herself.

“So, Katie Bell, off on her own grand adventure!” said her father, spreading his arms.

Katie managed a weak smile. 

“Ah, Kathryn, you'll be all right,” said her father, smiling. “Before y'know it, Christmas hols will have come round and you'll have lots of exciting stories to tell us. Now c' mon and give us the biggest hug in the history of the sport, eh?”

Hugging her extra tight, her father slipped something into her robe pocket. "Our little secret. Don't open it until the train leaves," he said quietly. 

“All aboard!” called the conductor.

Her father straightened up. “Bye now, Kathryn.” He seemed to hesitate, and for a moment, his smiled wavered, but then he tousled her hair, grinned, and turned and walked off the train.

“Bye, Papa Bear,” she whispered.

Katie looked out the compartment window at the platform where her family was still standing. Mox and her mother waved. Mason blew her a raspberry. Her father blew her a kiss.

Grinning, Katie waved back.

And then the train began to move forward, slowly, and she lost sight of them in the crowds.

With nothing else to do, Katie changed into her school robes, adjusting and readjusting the fastenings on her cloak until they looked somewhat straight. She made sure Sophie was settled next, but the kitten had already fallen back asleep. Just as well, really. Katie had no desire to deal with a hyperactive kitten on a train. 

Katie dug through her pack, looking for something to entertain herself. Her mother had packed a sandwich and some crisps for the trip, but Katie wasn't hungry- her stomach was in too many knots. She felt her pockets- her fingers closing briefly around the box her father had given her. But, she remembered, he'd said not to open it until the train left. She withdrew her hand and settled back, sighing. What if she had to ride the whole trip alone?

Suddenly, a loud explosion rattled the walls of her compartment. Steadying herself, Katie blinked. Magic? A busted engine? Both?

Katie looked around for Sophie, but the kitten was nowhere to be seen.

“Oh no!” exclaimed Katie, darting out into the hallway. “Sophie! Sophie!” 

The hallways were clouded with a thick, awful smoke that nearly made her choke. Still, Katie ran up and down the train twice with no sight of her kitten, getting jostled by the tangled mass of confused and coughing students.

Sighing, Katie plodded back to her compartment and sank onto the seat, new tears welling in her eyes. She’d already lost Sophie, and she was all alone on the Hogwarts Express, in route to an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar people-

An older boy was standing in the compartment doorway, holding Sophie out in one hand. He was a broad, dark-featured boy with rather unkempt short dark hair and gray eyes. He positively towered over her, and for a moment, she thought he might be half-giant...or at least part-troll.

Sophie’s tail swished happily in the boy’s grip as she meowed at Katie. 

“This yours?” asked the boy shortly, glaring down at her.

“Oh, yes! Thank you!” exclaimed Katie, jumping to her feet and taking the kitten from the boy’s grasp. “Sophie!” she scolded, holding the kitten up to look her in the eyes. “You’ve got to stay here! Thank you so-“

When Katie looked up to see Sophie’s savior, however, he was gone. It had to be a magic trick, disappearing that fast.

Taking her seat again, Katie put her hands in her lap and sighed. Outside, she could hear more people starting to board, chatting and laughing with friends. Once again, she was left with her thoughts. 

What if she didn't make any friends? What if she screwed up all her spells? What if she spent the next seven years, friendless, flunking every class, until, at the very end, they said, “There goes poor Katie Bell. What a shame, two promising wizards in the Bell family, and then, well, you know, practically a Squib-”

There was another loud and sudden commotion outside, and two ginger blurs burst into her compartment, quickly slamming the door behind them and dispelling the unpleasant images of Katie's over-active imagination. Looking closely, she could see the boys were both identical, and wearing matching grins to boot. They both turned to look at her.

"Mind if we share with you?" asked one.

"We-"

"-that is, er, -someone-"

"-may have set off a dungbomb-"

"-er, _another_ dungbomb-"

"-in the corridor."

"Yes, of course," said Katie quickly, grabbing Sophie and setting the kitten in her lap to make room. She'd heard a bit about dungbombs from Mason and had gathered from him that they were both extremely fun for the person setting them off and extremely unpleasant for everyone else. Having seen them firsthand, she would have to agree.

As the two stumbled the rest of the way in the compartment, one's trunk lid burst open, causing them both to curse. One of them sat on it while the other pounded the latch closed, but not before Katie caught a glimpse of what she thought were a sizable amount of Filibusters No-Heat, Wet-Start fireworks.

"I'm Fred Weasley," said one, after he'd stowed his trunk, "And this regrettably less handsome specimen to my right is my brother George."

"Less handsome?" echoed his brother, struggling to bring his bursting trunk into the compartment, "Surely you jest." 

"But aren't you two... _identical_?" asked Katie.

The boys grinned at each other, and George clasped a hand over his heart. "You wound me. Can't you tell I'm much better-looking, Miss-"

"Oh! Bell. I'm Katie Bell."

"Pleasure to meet you, Miss Bell," they replied, bowing in unison and making her giggle. They reminded her of her own brothers, Mason particularly, which helped to dispel both her shyness and her homesickness.

The one called George stuck his head out of the compartment. "Oi! Jordan! Down here!"

A new boy with dreadlocks entered the compartment, coughing up a storm and bringing the smells of the hallway in with him. Whatever dungbombs actually were, thought Katie, covering her nose, they were aptly named.

"Ever thinking of setting it off _after_ we got our luggage stowed?" muttered the new arrival. After setting down his luggage, he hailed two more girls from the corridor, who quickly clambered in, once again bringing a heavy, stagnant whiff of fresh manure with them. 

One had her hand around her mouth, while the other had wrapped her red and gold scarf around her face in an attempt to filter the smell.

"This is Katie Bell," said George (she thought it was George) to everyone. "Who has been kind enough to let us take over her compartment."

"It's nothing," blushed Katie, embarrassed to have everyone's full attention.

"This your first time on the Hogwart's express?" asked one of the two girls, shrugging off her coat. "I'm Angelina Johnson, by the way."

"And I'm Lee Jordan," said the boy with dreadlocks, sniffing at his cloak and making a face.

"Alicia Spinnet," said the third, plunking down next to her friend. "Couldn't wait to set those off, could you, you great prats?" she asked, glaring at Fred and George.

"I don't know what she could be referring to, do you, George?" Katie took the time to register that though George was wearing an identical maroon jumper to Fred's, his right sleeve was slightly frayed, thus setting him apart.

"Haven't the foggiest," replied his brother.

Alicia glared at the twins for a moment before once again turning her attention to Katie. "What a pretty kitten! What's her name?" 

"Sophie. You want to hold her?" asked Katie, settling her onto Alicia's lap, where the kitten stretched and began to purr.

"She's adorable!” said the girl, stroking her. “Well, are you excited? First time at Hogwarts, right?"

"Yes," said Katie, suddenly feeling shy again. And she was- excited, nervous, and about to be sick-

"Oh, she's a first year?" asked Lee.

"Which means-" began Fred, lifting an eyebrow.

"-the sorting," finished George dramatically.

"Poor thing." they said together, sighing. 

"They always seem so young." sighed Lee. "Makes it all the more tragic, really."

"It's that bad?" asked Katie. Mason had something about a broomstick and a hag, but she thought he'd been pulling her leg...

"Worse." said the twins sadly.

"Come off it, you two," snapped Angelina. "It's not that bad at all." She looked at Katie closely a moment, then frowned. "You're not related to Mox Bell, are you? Ravenclaw Seeker? Head boy? My cousin went to school with him."

"That's my oldest brother," said Katie. "Mason's my other brother."

"Yeah, I remember Mason, graduated last year? Ravenclaw prefect, though he probably caused more trouble than he prevented."

"Ah, yes. A true inspiration to us all," agreed Fred. “Revolutionized the self-inflating whoopie cushion.”

"Yeah, that sounds like Mason," said Katie, smiling.

"You're a shoe-in for Ravenclaw, then," said George, sighing. "Too bad. We can always use more birds in Gryffindor."

Katie looked around. "You're _all_ in Gryffindor?"

"Yep," said Fred proudly. "But Ravenclaw's not bad either, nor's Hufflepuff. It's Slytherin you really want to avoid. Ah, speaking of which-"

Standing in the compartment doorway were three of the biggest boys Katie had ever seen- and one of them was familiar- it was the boy who had handed over Sophie earlier. 

Fred was still smiling, but the grin had turned less than friendly. "Marcus Flint. Did you get lost on your way to your compartment?"

Finally, a name to a face. Katie opened her mouth to thank him again, but the boy spoke first.

"Ready for another losing season, Gryffindor?"

Angelina rolled her eyes, looking between Fred and Marcus. "Oh, great, here we go."

"Thought I smelt something foul in the hallway,' said George, turning around.

Another boy narrowed his eyes. "Really. You sure that isn't the dungbombs you and your half-wit brother set off? Oringog's hair's still on fire."

“Maybe it'll improve his looks,” replied George.

Fred clutched his chest in dismay. "Dungbombs? You know, Bletchly, you're going to hurt my feelings with your unfounded accusations."

"That's not all I'm going to hurt, Weasley," said the other boy, cracking his knuckles.

"Ah, where are my manners? Katie, meet Miles Bletchly, Adrian Pucey, and last but certainly not least, Marcus Flint," said Fred, giving them a mocking bow. "Members of the Slytheryn Quidditch team which, I'm sorry to say, will be in last place this year."

"That's rich, coming from the team that actually **was** in last place last year," said Marcus.

"Flint, I heard you got made captain, is that going to interfere with your detentions?" asked George.

"Keep it up," replied Flint, crossing his arms. "You can joke your way through another losing season."

Katie watched the exchange, wide-eyed, feeling as if she were a spectator in a particularly nasty tennis match.

The boy named Bletchly was leaning against the compartment door with his arms folded, a bored look on his handsome face. "Tell me, did Wood piss his pants when Weasley said he'd made him Captain next year after he leaves? I'd hate to see what happens if he ever manages to save a bloody goal. Probably blow his load right there on the pitch."

"Yes, well, let us know what happens if you happen to save one, Bletchly." returned Angelina. “Best wear a pair of nappies, just in case.”

Pucey smiled at her. "Ah, Johnson, will you finally be joining the team this year? They're really scraping the bottom of the barrel, aren't they? Or maybe the theme's 'tits over talent' this year."

Lee, Fred, and George all lunged forward, but Angelina and Alicia held them back by their shirt collars. "Don't, it's not worth it," hissed Angelina.

Alicia joined in. "Yes, move along, boys, isn't there a small child you have to steal candy from, or a kitten that needs eating?"

Flint rolled his eyes. "Original, Spinnet. See you on the pitch," he said in a low voice, as Pucey slammed the compartment door behind them hard enough to rattle the glass.

Lee turned to Katie, who'd been watching the exchange with silent, wide-eyed fascination. He laughed. "Well, that's Quidditch for you. There's never been any love lost between Gryffindor and Slytherin, on or off the pitch. Now,” Lee dug in his coat pocket a moment before producing a pack of cards. "Who's up for exploding-?"

Suddenly the compartment door burst open again, and a tall boy with red hair and glasses stuck his head in. "Was that you two setting off that dungbomb in the Slytherin compartment? That conductor's in a state, trying to conjure some incense charms, but they're saying it's a certainty Greengrass's luggage will never smell right again-"

"What a tragedy," muttered Angelina, rolling her eyes.

"This is serious," sniffed the tall boy. "Dumbledore is always saying how important inter-house unity is, and you're already creating problems-"

"Percy," said George, getting to his feet and putting his hand dramatically over his heart. "It wounds us to hear such unfounded accusations, especially from family."

"Would we want to start off the year with Slytherin on such an antagonistic foot? I ask you, our own brother-"

Percy was having none of it. "If I can prove you've gone and done it again, don't think I won't write Mother," said Percy, folding his arms. "It's not even the start of the year, and already you two aren't taking anything seriously-"

"There are plenty of things we take seriously," said Fred, affecting a wounded tone.

"Like dungbombs," muttered George under his breath, causing Alicia, Angelina, and Katie to conceal smiles. 

"Now, if you'll point that long nose of yours elsewhere, we were just saying we ought to crack open our studies-"

"-start the year off on the right foot-"

"-so I'm afraid we really can't be bothered-" finished George, shutting the door in the young man's face.

"Git," muttered Fred, taking a seat next to Angelina and Katie, while George, Lee, and Alicia took the seats opposite them. 

No sooner had everyone settled in than the door opened up yet again, revealing a broad-shouldered boy with the same bright red hair as Fred and George. Unlike their previous visitor, however, he looked to be in a good mood. "Was that dungbomb your work?" he asked, half-coughing, half-laughing.

"Haven't the foggiest idea what you're talking about, Charlie," said Fred. 

"Was there a dungbomb?" asked George innocently. "We hadn't noticed."

The older boy just rolled his eyes. "Yeah, sure. Hey Jordan, Alicia, Angelina, and-"

"-Katie," supplied Alicia after a moment, as Katie seemed to have temporarily forgotten her own name, being overwhelmed by new visitors. 

"Pleasure," said Charlie, grinning. "I'm going to meet up with Tonks and Chevis up front, see you guys at the feast."

"Who was that?" asked Katie, after their new guest had ducked out.

"Our brother Charlie." said George.

Katie frowned. "How many brothers do you _have_ , exactly?"

"Counting Percy?" 

"Do we _have_ to count Percy?" 

"I suppose," sighed Fred. “Mum has kittens if we don't.”

"Well, there's Bill, he's graduated and works for Gringott's as a curse-breaker, then there's Charlie, then Percy, then us, and of course, ickle Ronnikins-" Something about the way George said the last address made a rush of pity coarse through Katie for whomever the nickname belonged- "and Ginny, our dear little sister. " 

"Poor Ginny." said Katie, thinking of the prospect of not two, but six older brothers.

Fred laughed. "Ha. You wouldn't say that if you'd met her."

"Tiny little thing...but tough." agreed George. 

"She'd have to be, to handle you lot," said Alicia, and Angelina nodded. 

"Anyway, who's up for Exploding Snap?"

The rest of the ride passed quickly. They spent the journey playing exploding snap, playing 'guess that bean' with Angelina's giant bag of Every Flavor beans, and eating cauldron cakes and chocolate frogs from the trolly. 

"But you'll want to save your appetite for the feast tonight, the first night's always one of the best," said Fred. Katie was so busy playing cards, eating sweets, and laughing at Fred, George, and Lee's antics, that she forgot all about being homesick, and the looming horror of Sorting...almost. 

But even that turned out to be not so scary. Katie would never forget the cheers of her new friends as the Sorting Hat announced her new placement in Gryffindor, (Mum was going to be so surprised!), Angelina, grinning, patting the seat beside her at the Gryffindor table, or, later, upon being escorted up to the girl's dormitory, opening the box her father had given her from the privacy of her bed after the other girls had gone to sleep.

It was a sleek black box, the sort of thing with velvet cushioning inside that you got for really fancy sorts of jewelry. Her father had given her mother a pair of pearl earrings inside a similar box, once. 

Inside the box was another smaller, red velvet box. Cracking it open, Katie caught her breath at the sight of a ornate little golden snitch, its tiny gossamer wings folded down. The small charm, about the size of a sickle, was threaded onto a delicate gold chain that twinkled when it caught the light. Every detail of the small snitch was perfect, from the ornate etching on the body of the snitch to the thin, intricate filaments of its wings. It must have cost a small fortune.

_My dear Kathryn-_

_Mox and Mason helped me find this for you in Diagon Alley. I know starting school is a big thing, but I know you'll do great and make new friends and have lots of great adventures. I know I had a lot of fun at Colchester, and that was a school without any magic at all! Just imagine all the fun you can have with wands and brooms and dragons and trolls!_

_...best leave the trolls alone for now, until you know some good spells._

_I know beginnings are scary, sometimes, but they often lead to wonderful things. You're a brave girl, Kat, and I know you'll meet whatever comes head on- whether it's your studies, boys, or any challenges you meet along the way._

_...best leave the boys alone, too. Until you're 40 at least._

_Anyway, I hope you like the necklace- fly fast, and don't look down! After all, to really fly, you have to forget that you can fall, right?_

_Love always,_

_Dad."_

A small piece of parchment at the bottom of the box, lettered in fancy writing, read: 

_“This hand-made golden snitch is also embued with a memory charm specifically tailored for the recipient. The snitch, having flesh memory, will only open for the intended recipient (charm can be changed to reflect new owner). This charm can be activated by simply tracing the groove on the back of the pendant, and need only be done once._

_This piece of fine jewelry comes with a lifetime warranty and should be repaired or cleaned only at Silverstone Brothers, Ltd.”_

Pressing her thumb to the front of the snitch, Katie let out a little gasp when it opened. A light glimmered inside, then seemed to burst out- thin streams of vapor curling until they formed into two people- a man and a little girl. The little girl was seated on a small broomstick, gliding along, and the man was running alongside her, his hand at the small of her back, steadying her, both of them wearing identical grins-

Her first time on a broomstick. It had been wonderful, and terrifying, and exhilarating-

Katie smiled and closed the snitch in her hand, bringing her fist over her heart. 

“Thanks, Papa Bear.”

He was right- some beginnings weren't so bad after all.


	2. Chapter 2

Gryfinndor's first match of the year was not quite the beginning of the winning-streak Fred and George had promised. Despite several penalty shots awarded to Gryffindor for a Parkin's Pincer move that almost resulted in a collision, one Hawkshead Formation that actualy did result in a collision, and one execution of a Translyvanian Tackle that had resulted in a broken nose, Gryffindor lost badly. Katie had never seen so many different penalties in one game before.

It seemed that no sooner did Madam Hooch blow the whistle then a heavy downpour seemed to come out of nowhere, soaking both player and spectator alike. Slytherin began playing dirty immediately, fouling both Angelina and Elynda, a 7th year chaser, but the penalties were nothing next to what came next. Slytherin's goal seemed not to be so much scoring as taking out Charlie Weasley, a strategy that was fully realized when the Gryffindor seeker took a bludger straight to the face after being boxed in by two of Slytherin's chasers. As Charlie struggled to get back onto his broom, Slytherin's seeker was able to dive and capture the snitch, ending what was both a long and painful game for both Gryffindor's spectators and its players. Still, the flying had been amazing. Between Weasley and Flint, Katie wasn't sure who was the better flier. 

She knew who the dirtier flier was, anyway....

"But Slytherin cheated!" exclaimed Katie indignantly when they were back in the common room, her hands still balled into fists and her voice harsh from shouting. 

"Slytherin _always_ cheats, Katie," said Alicia sighing as she wrung out her plait. As a reserve chaser, she'd been able to watch the game under the awning next to the changing rooms, and was only slightly less soaked than her teammates. "That's a given. But seeing as Hooch was already telling Bole and Derrick off for that move on Charlie, she sort of missed Flint, Pucey, and Montague 's rendition of the Hawkshead formation, which nearly sawed Elynda off at the knees. By the time she saw that, well, Higgs had already caught the snitch, and there wasn't much point in a penalty shot, anyway." 

Katie frowned. "I thought the Hawkshead formation was just a flight maneuver, that there wasn't any contact involved?"

"Not in Slytherin's version," replied Fred glumly, appearing at Alicia's side.

"Have to give them points for creativity, I suppose," sighed George, plopping onto one of the couches. "Never seen the Hawkshead flown with such..."

"...intent to kill?" muttered Angelina helpfully, sinking down next to him.

"Yeah, that's it."

"Flint's a pretty good flier, though, isn't he?" thought Katie out loud.

George blinked at Katie. "Please tell me you didn't pay the forerunner for Wanker of the Year a compliment."

Alicia pressed a hand to Katie's forehead. "Must be a fever. Better go to the hospital wing straight away."

Katie ducked away from Alicia's hand, smiling. 

Fred sighed. "We were doing well enough until Bole sent that bludger at Charlie's face-" 

"-and well, he's sort of taken a lot of bludgers to the head already-" continued George.

"I suppose I'm not surprised they went for Charlie," said Katie. "He's loads better than Higgs. Is Charlie going to be okay, do you think?" she added worriedly.

"Take more than a bludger to stop Charlie." Fred raised an eyebrow. "Why, are you worried, Katie? Should we tell Charlie you've been agonizing over his most unjust injury, awaiting his speedy return with bated breath?"

"Aw, does ickle Katie have a crush?" George chimed in, grinning.

"Shut it, you two," replied Katie, rolling her eyes, "Or I'll hex you."

"You're a first year, you're not old enough to know any good curses," said George, wringing out his robes.

"I have older brothers," Katie pointed out.

Fred considered. "True, we did learn many of our best starter curses from Bill and Charlie-" 

"-mind you, they were used _on_ us," supplied George.

"-but it's true that there's nothing like a first-hand approach to learning spell work. Charlie was particularly gifted with the bat-bogey hex."

“-think he taught it to Ginny, actually-”

As if on cue, the current topic of conversation stumbled through the portrait hole, holding a handful of something to his forehead and looking a little pale beneath his freckles. As Fred, George, Angelina and Alicia sunk down in front of the fire, Charlie slumped down at one of the tables. Elynda and Erdwin, the 7th year chasers, gave everyone tired waves and headed up to bed, boots squelching with every step. 

The common room was relatively empty, except for a few students alternately scribbling furiously, muttering under their breath, or rubbing at their eyes in an attempt to finish their homework. Percy, a common fixture at one of the side tables nearest the fire, was double-checking his Transfiguration essay, having gone up to Gryffindor tower straight after the match. "I've never understood why you all insist on playing Quidditch," he said. "It's nice enough to watch from the stands, of course, but on the field, it's a bloody free-for-all, especially against that Slytherin. Reminiscent of those gladiator battles we've just seen in Muggle Studies, really. Come to that, I've often thought that one's pursuits at Hogwarts should be directed first to the academic, and not the barbaric-"

"Oh, shut it, Percy, will you?" muttered George, wringing his Quidditch uniform over the fire and making it sizzle. “Doesn't anyone know a drying charm around here?”

“Haven't covered it yet,” muttered Angelina. It seemed that no one wanted to bother Charlie, who had bigger troubles at the moment.

"Flattened," sighed Charlie gloomily, holding a large ruby object to the side of his head, where Katie could see that a nasty lump was already swelling. 

"Cooling charm," he said by way of an explanation, holding up the object for them to see before putting it back to his temple, where the beginnings of a bruise was already beginning to flush. The cooling object was an old, overlarge gobstone with a crack down the middle, chosen, no doubt, for its surface area.

"Where's Wood?" asked Alicia, peering behind him.

Angelina rolled her eyes. "Still in the locker room, obsessing over the playbook."

"Banging his head against it, actually," muttered George.

"Mental," agreed Fred.

"Shouldn't you go up to the hospital wing, Charlie?" asked Katie, remembering the way Charlie's head had snapped around with the force of the impact as the bludger collided with his face.

The Gryffindor captain raised an eyebrow, but he was smiling as he sat down at one of the tables, pulling a bag from under it. "Never been up to the hospital wing, have you, Kate? Pomfrey'll never let me out, and I've still got this damned essay of Trelawney's to finish. I've only just dodged her on the way up here, she's been after me since I got off the pitch."

"You know, we've often wondered why you continued in the noble-"

"-albeit senseless-" coughed Fred.

"-art of Divination," finished George. "It seems like such an abstract pursuit for someone as...grounded-"

"-thick-headed-" muttered Fred. 

"-as yourself."

Charlie calmly set down his quill and picked up his wand. "Actually, aside from being a guaranteed Newt, Divination's come in pretty handy. For example, Fred, I can see a thorough thrashing in your near future."

"How near?" asked Fred, looking at his brother with some measure of apprehension. Katie could see why- though already taller than his older brother, Charlie was roughly twice the size of him.

"Near enough," replied Charlie calmly. Pointing his wand at his quill, he muttered 'Dictatus'. The quill sprung up, hovering over the parchment and ready to write, which left Charlie free to hold the cooling stone over half of his face. Katie filed the useful charm away in her memory banks for later use. 

Eying his brother suspiciously but deciding that a thrashing was not immediately forthcoming, Fred turned back to the fire, trying to warm his sopping-wet trainers against the grill. The soles and laces dripped, sizzling in the flames. 

Still muttering to his quill, Charlie smiled.

Katie, Alicia, and Angelina hid their giggles behind their hands. A heavy book from one of the tables was now hovering over Fred's unsuspecting head.

At that moment, Oliver Wood climbed through the portrait hole, looking for all the world as if he had just attended a funeral...in a monsoon.

"All right there, Oliver?" called Angelina.

"Never better," replied the Keeper glumly. "By the way, McGonagall's looking for you, Charlie. You're to report to the hospital wing immediately, she said, no excuses."

"Damnit," muttered the elder Weasley, throwing down his quill and trudging out the portrait hole. 

As soon as he left, the book hovering over Fred's head dropped with a loud thunk onto his skull, causing Angelina, Katie, Alicia, and George to once again dissolve into laughter.

A disapproving sniff made them look behind, where Percy was shaking his head. "Like I said, Quidditch is a distraction from one's academic responsibilities-" he began.

"Oh, _do_ be quiet, Percy," snapped Fred, still rubbing his head.

After about an hour of lamenting their loss, the sodden group finally trudged off to bed. Katie watched them go, their steps squelching on the staircase.

Still, despite Gryffindor's thorough defeat, Katie's ambition to join the team next year had not dimmed in the slightest. Sitting in front of the fire in the common room, she pulled out a small sheath of paper from her pocket that she'd taken down from the Gryffindor Activity Board earlier in the week.

**"For those first-years desirous of improving broom skills , (or other years wanting to hone or help their skills), Madame Hooch will be holding a two hour supervised free-fly every Sunday out on the Quidditch Pitch before lunch. Those first-years interested should sign up on Madame Hooch's door, located in the dungeons next to the statue of Prewyn the Pugnacious. After last year's incident, NO ATTEMPTS AT THE WRONSKEI FEINT WILL BE ALLOWED."**

Katie smiled, set the bulletin aside, and pulled a sheath of parchment out of her book bag and set to writing a note to Mox.

 

_Hey Biggest Brother and Kiran,_

_Saw my first Hogwarts match today. We lost to Slytherin- badly, I might add, but I saw some great flying that gave me ideas for next year. Charlie Weasley's as good a flier as you said. I hate to admit it, but Marcus Flint's rather good as well._

_For a Slytherin, anyway._

_There's been a posting for a free-fly this Sunday, and I'm going to take advantage of it. I sure wish I had my own broom, though- we had flying lessons with Madam Hooch this week, and I couldn't get mine to go faster than a baby crawl._

_Thanks for the fudge, Kiran- it was really good, I had it for breakfast yesterday. And lunch. Was that some sort of pepper in there? Like a trace of Pepper-up potion? Must be why I was so awake in Herbology. Which is good, because last week I fell asleep on top of my mandrake. Pomphrey wasn't pleased._

_Neither was the mandrake, come to that._

_I'm looking forward to coming home for the Christmas hols already- you and Kiran are coming, right? I know you were away for the DOMC last year, but it just wasn't the same without you. Me, I've got all my Christmas shopping done already. Aren't you proud of me, Kiran? I got Mum a scarf in Gryfffindor colors, Mason a new magical compass for the crypts, and I got dad a Foe Glass for Christmas (ordered from the Diagon Alley Dark Detector catalog- on sale! Apparently they had a bunch leftover from when You-Know-Who was big.) I figured Dad can put it in his squad, though I'm not sure it works on non-magical enemies. As to what I got you two, well, you'll just have to wait and see, won't you!_

_Sophie's settling in nicely. She doesn't appear to be afraid of much, just like her namesake (maybe she'll find a cat version of Howl to keep her company....so far, she's just interested in chasing mice and leaving them on my pillow. Yech!)_

_I'd better wrap this up and get some sleep before my flying practice tomorrow- don't want to fall off my broom!_

_Lots of love,  
Katie_

 

…..  
….  
…  
..  
.

 

It was like her dreams- here she was, hovering hundreds of feet above the ground, the wind in her hair and a sheen of sweat on her brow. 

Unlike her dream, however, she was doing her damned best not to fall off her broom and make an utter idiot out of herself, though she would never admit it. The school brooms were a lot jerkier than the Moontrimmer she'd flown at home, and though she missed the fluidity of her old broom, she was slowly getting used to this one. 

After proving to Madam Hooch that she had some experience on a broom, (it helped, she supposed, that Hooch was familiar with both Mox and Mason and considered them an excellent recommendation for Katie's own potential), she was allowed to join the other more experienced broom riders in the higher area of air, while other first years scooted unsteadily along the ground, occasionally getting a good headwind (which was usually followed by an unceremonious tumble to the ground). 

Fred and George had come out with her as well, and were currently doing barrel rolls. They had nearly collided twice, though Katie was not entirely sure it was an accident. The twins seemed especially fond of mayhem, particularly if they were the ones creating it.

It was a beautiful day- the wind was cool and the sky was powder blue. Perfect weather for flying. Adjusting her stance, Katie reached into her pocket and pulled out the group of pages she'd ripped out from her old copy of “Intermediate Quidditch Techniques”. Taking her finger, she traced the path of moving Quidditch player in a series of loops. Perhaps she wasn't ready for that one quite yet, but she could try a simpler version of it for now.

Turning her broom, she hunched her body over the handle and shot off to the far end of the pitch, one of the school's practice quaffles tucked snugly under her arm. Being a school broom, it didn't go terribly fast, but it was fast enough to get the tiniest spike of adrenaline in her gut as she accelerated. It was wonderful, flying, weightless and carefree above the ground, the broom a rudder as she cut through the air.

She stopped short of the opposite goal, not wanting to incur the wrath of Madam Hooch for going too far. Hovering, she glanced around the pitch, watching the other fliers circle and dive. One in particular caught her attention- a black blur that cast a shadow over the pitch as he skimmed the field. Darting up like a dragonfly, the blur zig-zagged around the goal post and shot past her, creating a wind that ruffled her plait.

Katie shaded her eyes as she looked up. Marcus Flint.

Katie hovered as she watched the boy dip down, then zag up just as abruptly, before completely dropping out and shooting across the pitch like an arrow. That had to be a Nimbus 1500 at least. Not for the first time, Katie lamented the rule that prevented her from bringing her own broom. It was no Nimbus, to be sure, but it was a right sight better than this old stick.

Experimentally, Katie dipped the handle of her broom down, leaning into the dive. However, the school broom’s momentum was jerky at best, (or perhaps had some kind of anti-suicide charm that prevented new fliers from doing any sort of dive at all), because the broom jerked to an abrupt halt halfway through, nearly throwing Katie from the broom. Fortunately, Katie had a great deal of experience on a broom (which involved falling off of it a great deal as well), and she managed to grip the broom tightly enough to avoid plummeting. As it was, however, her book pages spilled out of her pocket, twirling lazily down to the lawn, along with the old Quaffle, which hit the ground with a thud.

Katie hung by one arm twenty feet off the ground, her hand tightly gripping the handle and palm splintered where her hand had slid across the old, weather-beaten handle. Madam Hooch, who was busy telling off the Weasley twins for finally succeeding in knocking each other off their brooms, hadn't noticed her predicament yet. This was good, as Katie was fairly certain her current state would relegate her to the grass-skimmers for the foreseeable future.

“Careful there, little Gryffindor,” came a voice from above. “Don’t want to break all your bones before they set, do you?” 

It was Marcus Flint, the boy from the train, his silhouette blocking out the sun.

And though Katie’s cheeks bloomed with embarrassment, she glared up at him as she pulled up and swung a leg around the broom handle, eventually tilting her weight back up to a sitting position. 

She supposed she ought to be intimidated. Marcus Flint was, after all, a great hulking troll of a boy, and a nasty Slytherin to boot. Still, Katie had grown up with much older brothers and their older friends, and she'd had to overcome her shyness rather quickly if she wanted to bully them into playing with her. And so Katie Bell squared her shoulders and stared up at Marcus Flint with indignation instead of the fear and hesitation he was used to seeing.

“I have a name, Slytherin.”

To her suppose, the boy grinned. “That so?”

“Yeah, it’s so. It's Katie Bell.” She snapped. “And these school brooms stink. They won’t dive at all.”

“Well, get used to it,” replied the older boy dispassionately. “First years aren’t allowed a broom. For good reason, apparently, in your case.”

“It's a stupid rule,” muttered Katie, ignoring the jab. “What’s that maneuver you were doing just now, anyway?

“It’s not a maneuver,” replied Flint, still hovering. “Not yet. It's half of one. Ever heard of the Wollongong Shimmy?” he asked, as if he very much doubted she had.

“Yes, I have!” said Katie. “I saw Rudgekins execute that maneuver at the Harpies vs. Falcon’s match last year.”

“You were at that match?”

“My brothers and my Dad took me.”

Marcus looked surprised. “Rudgekins had a pretty good go of it, yeah, but if you want to see what it’s supposed to look like, you should look up Polomorph’s execution in the 89 World Cup.”

“Oy! Flint!” called a boy far across the pitch. “The hell’re you doing?”

Marcus narrowed his eyes at the far-flung figure, then shook his head. “Try to stay on your broom, Gryffindor. If you can’t, well, you’ll be a shoe-in for the house team, won't you?”

“It’s _Katie_ , you git!” she shouted after him, glaring.

Kitten-savior or not, Marcus Flint had rotten manners. No wonder Gryffindors and Slytherins didn’t get along. 

Still, Katie went to the library afterwards to reference Polomorph's version of the Wollongong Shimmy. Flint had been right- Polomorph's was better.  
.....  
….  
…  
..  
.

_Dear Mum and Dad,_

_Well, Sophie and I are all settled in- I've already met some great friends in my House, and my classes are going well, even if Professor Snape's a bit scary in Potions. Professor Flitwick's really funny, though- our first day of class, he taught us how to cast a color charm, and turned his robes (and his mustache) bright pink. Did you know he used to be a Dueling champion?_

_I've been practicing my flying during the open sessions Madam Hooch hosts on the weekends. The school brooms stink, but I almost pulled off a falcon-dive last Saturday (well, as much of a dive as you can when your broom only goes half as fast as a normal one.) Dad, you should have seen me! Remember that junior league game against the Wormwoods? I should've used that move then! We would've flattened them!_

_(Don't worry, Mum, I'm minding my marks as well!)_

_I'm looking forward to Christmas hols, of course- Dad, we're still going snowboarding at Slipshod Slopes, right? Could I bring two of my friends? Angelina's got her own board, and Alicia says she's never been. Pleeeeeaaaase?_

_Thanks for that last package- the sweater's nice, Mum, and the pear drops were awesome, Dad!_

_Lots of love,  
Katie_

…..  
….  
…  
..  
.  
Night or day, the Slytherin common room was dark and bathed in a pale green glimmer, which was not helped by the dark leather sofas, dark wood cupboards, and low-backed green and black chairs. As a result of the location and upholstery, the room was in a perpetual shade of nighttime, whether it actually was or not. The coldness from the lake seemed to seep into the stone, warring with the ever-burning fire in the grand stone fireplace. It was an impressive room, but dank and drafty as well.

Marcus sat in one of the chairs in front of the fire, flanked by Terence Higgs and Adrian Pucey. Pucey was bent over his charms homework, waving it at at toadstool so enthusiastically and repeatedly it was beginning to grate on Marcus's nerves.

“Bloody frost spell,” muttered Pucey. “Why won't it work?”

“It could be the incoherent mumbling,” said Terence, looking up from his Potions book, “Or perhaps it's the feckless wand-waving. There's also the fact that you're a hapless git to consider-”

“Frost yourself, wanker,” snarled Adrian, jabbing his wand once again at the toadstool, which proceeded to spring up and float in the air. 

All three Slytherins looked up as it drifted lazily overhead, making its way around the room. 

“Huh,” said Adrian, looking at his wand.

“That's going to wear off eventually, you know,” pointed out Terence.

“Hope it wears off over your head,” muttered Adrian.

“No homework tonight, Flint?” asked Terence, frowning. 

Marcus shrugged. “None I feel like doing.”

“Must be nice,” muttered Adrian, “Having the family business to look forward to.”

Marcus's gaze didn't waver from the fire. “Yeah? Help yourself.” Getting up, he walked down to the dormitory, slamming the heavy door behind him.

His friends exchanged glances. 

“What was-” began Terence.

The footstool chose that moment to fall on the head of a burly 7th year, who proceeded to chase after Adrian with murderous and singular intent.

…..  
….  
…  
..  
.

 

She was floating above the Quidditch pitch, the wind in her hair and the ground hundreds of feet below. Her forehead was sweaty, and she was filled with the kind of free-floating exhilaration that only flying could bring. The quaffle was tucked snugly under her arm, and the crowd around the pitch was hollering. After a moment, she realized it was her name-

"Katie!"

"Katie!" Something was shaking her, and she slid sideways on her broom. She righted herself immediately, still looking down at the crowd. They were bringing out the Quidditch World Cup, she could see the golden gleam from the ground below....

"Katie!"

And she slipped again-

"Katie! Wake up!"

"Miss Bell, wake up," said someone deep in the clouds, and suddenly, her broom began to shake.

Katie opened her eyes to stare into the troubled gaze of Professor McGonagall. Panic spiked in Katie. What could she possibly have done that her head of house was here in the middle of the night? She cleared her throat, blinking up at her teacher as her mind raced, trying to recall any recent indiscretions. She’d kept watch for the Weasley twins last week near the Divination staircase (she found it was best not to ask why, with Fred and George, but…)

"What's..." began Katie.

McGonagall's mouth tightened. "I must ask you to get dressed at once and come with me."

“But...I-” 

“Now, please.”

Wordlessly, Katie pulled on her dressing gown and followed McGonagall down the cold, drafty hallways, still barefoot, a million questions rising and dying on her lips.

Corridors twisted and turned as she stumbled after McGonagall, following the professor’s lit wand tip as it floated in the dark. 

Suddenly, they came to a stop in front of a large stone gargoyle. 

“Fizzing Whizbees,” said McGonagall firmly, and the gargoyle stepped aside to reveal a large winding staircase. Climbing it, they came to a large, circular room. The walls were filled with portraits of sleeping men and women, and Katie thought she recognized a few old Headmasters. Small silver instruments dipped and whirred on various tables, and a fire flickered from the corner. Overall, it was a very inviting room.

New horror bloomed in Katie’s stomach, however, as she realized the office belonged to none other than Professor Dumbledore, who sat behind his desk, looking at her over the tips of his fingers. “Please come in.”

Her feet feeling as heavy as giant gobstones, Katie dragged herself across the room and sat numbly in the chair across from Dumbledore, trying to summon her voice and tell the Headmaster that whatever she’d done, she was very sorry for it. 

But Dumbledore spoke first.

"It is with greatest regret, Katie, that I must tell you that an unfortunate even occurred this evening involving your father."

Something cold and heavy dropped into Katie's stomach. "I didn't do...what?"

Dumbledore folded his hands and gazed at her across the desk, his normally twinkling blue eyes serious and saddened.

"Your father was on duty this evening when he interrupted a burglary in process at a local greengrocer's. He and the owner were shot, and found later by a second responding unit. Your father has been taken to a Muggle hospital-”

Hope stirred. “If he's in the hospital, then-”

“-I am afraid the trauma he suffered has put him into a vegetative state."

“A vegetati-“ began Katie, for some crazy reason thinking of her father exploding a potato in the microwave last summer.

“Your father suffered a gunshot wound to the head. As a result, his brain activity has ceased,” explained Dumbledore calmly. “He is currently on life support. Your mother has asked me to explain this to you, and to make sure you understand his condition before you see him. Katie?”

Brain activity ceased…life support…brain dead….brain dead…..dead….

"No...." The word seemed to come from somewhere else. Someone else. Because her father couldn’t be…she'd only just written...

...not her father, who could still carry her on his shoulders, who had run alongside her on her first broom, his large hand splayed across her back, steadying her, steadying the world around her, whose laughter could fill up a whole room, who could fit fifteen marshmallows in his mouth, who danced to street performers in the middle of the street, grinning from ear to ear as he swung her round-

McGonagall's hand tightened on her shoulder.

"No!" said Katie, breaking free of her teacher's grasp and rushing towards Dumbledore's desk. "No! It's not true. It's not true!"

Dumbledore stared sadly at her over the tips of his fingers. "I am truly sorry, Katie. I, like you, wish it were not the truth. Your brother will be here shortly to collect you, to take you to the hospital-"

Katie shook her head, clutching at something, anything. “But you could help him, couldn’t you? You’re the most powerful wizard, you could fix him, with magic, please-”

But Dumbledore shook his head, slowly, sadly. “Though we often wish that it were otherwise, Katie, there are some things even magic cannot fix.”

“Then what good is it!” shouted Katie, her eyes burning, her fists shaking at her side.

_Her father, hugging her on the train-_

_Her father, making chocolate chip pancakes wearing a chef's hat made from the daily paper-  
Her father, swinging her around to the wireless-_

_Her father, her father, the little pieces of her world falling away like dust-_

_“Ah, Kathryn, you'll be all right-”_

_The last time she saw him, on the train-_

_-the last time she would ever see him, speak to him-_

"No. No! He's not, he's not, HE'S NOT, HE'S NOT-" she was taking deep breaths now, trying to steady herself, trying to take enough air in, but her world was tightening, vision narrowing-

"Katie-" The Headmaster was standing now, his expression alarmed. But Professor Dumbledore's words were fading away. The room was fading away. 

She was dimly aware of the floor rising up, of the cold stone beneath her knees and the grief, new and piercing and terrible, pressing her down into the earth so hard she could scarcely breathe-

-then arms lifting her up and a familiar voice in her ear, a familiar smell filling her nose- leather and hay, and-

_Mox._

"Shhhhh, Katers. It's all right. It's all right."

“It’s not true,” she said stubbornly, tears slipping down her cheeks as she closed her eyes against her brother's blazer. “He isn't...he’s fine, he’s going to be-”

But Mox only pulled back and looked at her, shaking his head. 

She slumped against him, her tears soaking her brother's shirt and her sobs muffled by his shoulder and the same word breaking her lips over and over again-

"No, no, no, _nooooooo_ -"

And just like that, her old world fell away.


	3. Chapter 3

Christmastime was usually a loud and boisterous time in the Bell household. Every room was filled to the brim with family and friends, all laughing and toasting and singing and generally making a festive mess. The table was always laden with goodies- roast ham, yorkshire pudding, Christmas cookies with icing thick as paving stones, a huge tureen of clam chowder and silver boats of thick, hot gravy for the mountains of mashed potatoes her mother whipped up. There was fun to be had in every room- one had only to pick a room of noisy relatives, plop down, and join a conversation or a game of gin rummy. Her father wore a Christmas wreath atop his head with a pair of plastic antlers, waltzing through the rooms and singing carols at the top of his lungs, picking up his wife and waltzing her around the house until she demanded to be set down, then chasing after Katie, who shrieked with delighted laughter, or Mox, who rolled his eyes but played along, or Mason, who was usually up for a twirl-

This year, her mother had set the table with cold turkey sandwiches and a bowl of barely warmed beans.

Laughter and footfalls were conspicuously absent. Katie had wandered the house, not sure what she was looking for. A sign of him, perhaps. Instead, a persistent quiet had settled over the house, blanketing Katie in a bleak, frigid sadness that seemed to soak into her bones and leave her cold, tired, and missing her father something awful. There was no respite from it-there was only silence in every room.

Morganna Bell was simply not up to hosting Christmas this year, and she'd told Mason and Mox not to come as well. Sampa and Samma Bell were also absent- no muggle card tricks or monkey bread this year. They’d gone on hols, they wrote Katie, sending a Christmas card filled with muggle money. They'd be vacationing in Italy this year, which Mox had said was to help them forget. 

But how could anyone _forget?_ Every morning, Katie woke up to a world without her father in it. There was no escaping it.

No sooner had Katie stepped off the Hogwarts express than her mother's expression tightened, her hug perfunctory, and she'd wordlessly taken Katie to the car. During the car ride back, her mother had asked the usual questions about school, and after that, the car had descended into a heavy silence Katie couldn't seem to break. Katie had gripped the charm on the necklace her father had given her and stared out of the window for most of the ride.

Since arriving home, her mother had said two sentences to her, which Katie believed had been 'take your trainers out of the hallway', and 'a dish for Sophie is in the kitchen.' The hallway, which usually housed a magnificent tree covered in homemade ornaments, was decidedly empty. Every year, her father had pulled up box after box of ornaments from the basement, Mox and Kiran had come over, and they'd all decorated the trees together while the radio blared Christmas music both magic and muggle. Katie's mother didn't cook that night, and instead everyone stuffed themselves on cookies, tarts, and cider as a treat. They pulled crackers and wore silly hats, sitting around the fire and listening to carols on the wireless.

Not this year.

Though Katie's relationship with her mother had never lacked for love or affection, she had always been unquestionably closer to her father, owing to their similar interests and demeanor. There was also the fact that Katie had always sensed that she was simply not quite what her mother had been expecting in a daughter, an unspoken disappointment between them. Katie had never learned to sit right in dresses and had reached for brooms over dolls since she had been able to walk. Her mother's attempts in teaching her sewing and embroidery had ended more often in Katie sewing her work into her lap, or having to start over again and again because of mistakes. 

There was also the fact that her mother was the most beautiful woman Katie had ever seen- dark, lustrous hair that fell in waves down her back, dark, nearly violet eyes, and an elegant figure that was always dressed to its best advantages, in clothes she tailor-made herself. Katie often felt like an insect next to her. A freckled, gangly insect with skinned knees and knobby elbows. 

Sitting across from her mother at the dining room table, Katie tried to reach past the terrible heaviness in her own heart and summon some holiday cheer. Something to bring a smile to her mother’s blank face. Nothing occurred to her, however, until her eye caught sight of an old bottle of magical super glue on the windowsill next to a cracked dish.

"Mum, remember when Dad tried to help Mason with his model broom and glued his fingers together with that enchanted Everlast glue? We had to call the Magical Malady hotline, and Dad started cursing at the operator, so Mox had to take the phone and...."

Katie's next words died on her lips as she looked up.

Morganna Bell's normally warm, lovely eyes were hard, her mouth pursed in a tight line. In that moment, she seemed to look through Katie, look past her to the wall behind her. Without a word, her mother pushed back from the table, dumped her plate in the sink, and left Katie alone with her Christmas dinner. 

Katie picked at her food for awhile, but it had been cold to begin with and she had little appetite. She waited at the table almost two hours for her mother to return before scraping her plate into the rubbish bin and going to bed herself.

It was midnight, now….Christmas day.

The locket lay open in her hands, the image of Katie and her father filling up the dark room. Again and again, her father ran alongside her- again and again, he let her go and smiled as she zoomed away.

“Happy Christmas, Papa Bear,” muttered Katie to the darkness above her, tears slipping silently down her cheeks.

…..  
….  
…  
..  
.

 

The next day, over the same cold turkey sandwiches at lunch, Katie mustered her courage and once again met her mother's blank gaze across the table.

"We could go and see him," she said, "At the cemetery. We could go and buy some flowers at the Morrison’s shop. Honking daisies, he always liked-"

"Stop it, Kathryn." snapped her mother, slamming down her fork.

Something hard and ugly knotted in Katie at her dismissal and she looked up at her mother with a mixture of hurt and indignation. "Why?"

"Because he's gone. He's _gone_ , Kathryn, and no amount of wishing will bring him back," said her mother. 

"I know he is," snapped Katie, slamming down her fork as well. "What I don't understand is why we have to pretend that he was never here in the first place."

Her mother sighed. “Kathryn, I am trying to-”

“I know what you're trying to do! You're trying to forget him!”

This time, it was Katie who shoved back from the table and stormed off to her room, locking the door behind her. She lay on her bed, glaring up at the Holyhead Harpies poster without really seeing the players flying in and out of view, yelling and pumping their fists in the air.

An hour later, Katie heard her mother get up from the table. Her footsteps hesitated outside Katie's door, and for a moment Katie held her breath, not knowing if she wanted her mother to knock or not. But then they continued, and her mother's door slammed shut.

The next day, Morganna was back at the shop before Katie woke up. Katie owled Mox and asked if she could stay at their house for the rest of the holidays, and left her mother a note on the kitchen counter telling her where she had gone.

Kiran picked her up that afternoon.

….......  
…...  
….  
…  
..  
.

**Year Two**

 

"I don't understand the appeal," said Leanne as they made their way down the corridor, clutching their potions books and avoiding the opposite lane of foot traffic. "Whizzing around on a broomstick a hundred feet off the ground-"

Katie grinned at her friend. "What's not to understand? Wind in your hair, everything happening a mile a minute-"

"-and blokes three times your size trying to knock you off your broom!" continued her friend. "It's complete madness!"

Katie shook her head. "Oh come off it, it's fun! Besides, I'm only a second year," said Katie. "I've got about as much chance of making the team as the Cannon'sve got of winning the league."

Leanne stared blankly at her. "Who're the Cannons?"

Katie rolled her eyes. "Nevermind."  
…..  
….  
…  
..  
.

They say you never forgot your first Quidditch game, and that was true. Katie Bell would never forget her first Quidditch match, because she was nearly knocked off her broom, got elbowed in the ear twice, and nearly fractured her skull when Sam Morrose hit a bludger straight into the back of her head.

Still, she'd never had more fun. 

The Rec League Quidditch games she'd played when she was younger couldn't compare to this- the emerald green pitch with Hogwarts looming in the distance, the tall rows of bleachers packed with screaming students, and best of all, her new broom, a Cleansweep 7 (a present from her brothers for making the team), whizzing through the air, her robes rippling, the wind in her hair and three Slytherin Chasers hot on her tail.

While her fellow teammates went up to the common room to celebrate, however, Katie was sent to the hospital wing to have the ostrich egg on the back of her head looked at. George promised to save her some butterbeer.

Flint, having lost the battle with Madam Hooch over Harry's creative catch of the Snitch, was also sitting in the hospital wing, blood spattered on his face and robes from taking a bludger directly to the face. His nose looked broken. 

Madam Pomfrey shook her head as she handed Marcus a damp piece of gauze to mop up his robes. “Now, mind you, this may hurt a bit.”

Marcus shrugged. 

“Episkey,” said Pomfrey, waving her wand with a sharp flick. A small crack resounded in the quiet room as his nose reset, but Marcus only blinked. 

“Can I go now?” he asked shortly.

“Well, there's gratitude for you,”snapped the nurse. “Mind you sleep with your head a bit elevated tonight and come back if it starts to bleed again. Off you go, then.”

Marcus got to his feet and tossed the bloody gauze on the bed. “You got lucky today, Gryffindor.” he said, looking at her for the first time since she'd entered the room.

“No such thing as luck in Quidditch, _Slytherin_ ," replied Katie. 

“Well, you managed to stay on your broom, at least,” replied Marcus, smirking. “Maybe next time you'll actually score a goal.”

Katie narrowed her eyes at him, returning the smirk. “Yeah, and maybe next time you'll actually win the game.”

Marcus kept walking. Katie resisted the very childish urge to stick her tongue out at him. 

“Now, “ said Madam Pompfrey, her expression softening as she turned to Katie. “Let's see to that fwooper egg on the back of your head, shall we?”

 

…..  
….  
…  
..  
.  
_Dear Katie,_

_Kiran and I got your letter- we'll have to hold a celebration for you making the Quidditch team, though I always knew you were a shoe-in! (All that training from your handsome elder brother must have been what did it.) I hope you like the broom we picked out for you. Mason insisted the Cleansweep was better than the Nimbus for cornering, and, well, I've been out of the broom market for awhile, so I let him pick._

_Kiran is already talking about the celebration dinner- I can feel myself getting fatter just listening to him dream up the menu. So far it's pork chops with cranberry gravy (your favorite), and of course, trifle with cakes soaked in rum. Better bring pants with an elastic waistband._

_Dad would be really proud. I know it might hurt you to hear it, but I know, wherever he is, he IS proud of you. I hope you aren't mad at me for saying so._

_Mom's proud of you too, whether she says it or not. Write her, okay? She's not had an easy go of it lately. She misses him too._

_Everything on the preserve is going well. You've got to come and see the Mooncalves- the babies are getting big (when they'll let you have a glimpse!)_

_We're both happy that you'll be joining us for Christmas hols again this year. Shok misses you._

_Love,  
(Mox)_

…..  
….  
…  
..  
.

Mooncusser Ranch was a magical menagerie of animals, one of the few of its kind in the wizarding world. It was surrounded by trees, hills and copious disillusionment charms, and a single old windmill that no one used except for storage. The grounds of the preserve was something out of Hagrid's dreams: a 200 acre stretch of land for the most fantastic beasts imaginable (at or below a class 4, anyway).

Though Mox helped to run the preserve when he was home, Kiran did the bulk of the work, and it was a full day's job. On the eastern corner of the preserve were the Demiguise, who were happily left to their own devices until sheering season. It had taken Kiran over four years to gain the creatures' trust, and it took at least a year to earn the trust of each of their offspring, through visits and careful gifting of cucumbers, butterleaf, and oddly, Galaxy caramel candy bars. Once a year, in summertime, Kiran harvested the hair of the Demiguise, which was extremely valuable and used in invisibility cloaks. It took the hair of at least twelve Demiguise to make one cloak, and the weaving process itself took years. This was where Kiran made the bulk of his fortune, and what enabled him to run such a large preserve. Most wizards killed the Demiguise for their coats- Kiran had found a sustainable way to harvest it, and he was the first. It was a matter of patience and time, Kiran had said, something wizards didn't often have in spades, being so used to magical solutions. 

“Besides,” said Kiran. “They're glad to be rid of the coats in summer. Keeps them cooler.”

The central area of the ranch was the paddocks, which housed the winged horses, the hippogriff Aarti, and the Re'em, Katie’s personal favorite, a giant ox with a glimmering golden hide. The creature had been rescued as a calf by Mox's group after the mother was slaughtered for her pelt, and was, in fact, the reason that Mox and Kiran had met in the first place. 

Mox had argued with the Ministry against putting the creature down, Kiran had agreed to take the animal on the preserve, Mox had delivered it, and the rest was history. They'd named the Re'em Shok, and as long as you didn't make any quick movements around him, the beautiful beast liked to be petted and brushed and was generally an overlarge baby. His coat was as soft as butter, and he positively preened under the attention. He was quite vain; Katie supposed his golden coat didn’t help matters. 

Katie loved the central part of the preserve as well. Kiran bred a small herd of Abraxion, Aethonan, and Granian horses that he trained and sold, and he'd recently acquired a breeding pair of thestrals, which were scary to look at but were actually quite sweet. Katie loved rubbing linseed oil into the horses' wings and braiding the manes and tails on the more domesticated ones. On occasion, she and Kiran went flying together. Kiran didn't believe in harnessing his horses for anything other than training, and so Katie had learned bareback, which, on a flying horse, was a very different kind of adventure altogether. It made riding a broom seem easy by comparison, and Katie considered it excellent practice. She'd gotten rather good, and after awhile, Kiran let her help in training the horses simple commands they'd need to learn before being sold to pull magical carriages and other enchanted cargo.

The western corner of the preserve was filled with trees and tall shrubs, and housed the Diricawl and the Nifflers, which lived in a burrow under the potting shed. Large clumps of faeries populated this section, and could be seen twinkling at night. For this reason, Mox and Kiran often took their evening tea out on the porch.

Kiran made a very generous living running the preserve and Mox made quite a few galleons working for the Ministry as a Hunter for dangerous creatures, but one would never guess it from their attitude or style of decor. Kiran poured much of what they made back into the preserve, but the two lived rather comfortably on what was left. Everything in the five bedroom house was built for utility and comfort, from the squashy armchairs to the colorful throw pillows tossed haphazardly about the furniture. The two men routinely wore ratty denims and flannel shirts around the house, though Kiran was a rather smart dresser when the occasion arose.

Katie loved Mox and Kiran's house. It was a big, beautiful old log cabin with skip-planed oak flooring and high, beamed ceilings. The home had a bright, inviting quality to it, with big squashy chairs and warm quilts draped over every piece of furniture. The cabin always smelled like a mixture of spices- sometimes cinnamon and nutmeg, sometimes like cardamom and coriander, depending on what Kiran was cooking. It was the kind of house that invited you to make yourself comfortable, and not worry about dirt or shoes or using coasters.

The inside of the house was filled with animals as well. Puffskein of many colors ran happily around a large, open pen in the living room. Kiran sold the Puffskein as pets only. Lancelot, Mox's dog, was somewhere between a Crup and a very large bloodhound. The top of the dog's head reached Katie's waist, and the only sign of its Crup blood was its forked tail, which Kiran cast disillusionment charms on rather than sever. There was also a kneazle named Portis and a common tabby, Shygo, from which Katie's kitten Sophie had come. Fairies flitted in and out of the house at their whim, and on holidays and birthdays were happily used to decorate trees and draping.

Katie's favorite room in the house was the great room with the fireplace. There was always a big fire blazing in the hearth, crackling and popping, and Katie enjoyed watching the salamanders dance over the logs. After the work was done and dinner eaten, everyone curled up in their favorite chair or sprawled on the rug in front of the fire. Sometimes they played exploding snap, sometimes a muggle board game or two (Mox always game more interesting by charming the game pieces), and if he wasn't busy on a dig, Mason would often Floo in for a nightcap after work. You could always find an animal that wanted petting, or one that would happily warm your lap or your feet (or both at the same time, if it was one of the big ones).

For Katie, Mooncusser ranch became her home away from Hogwarts. It was warm and safe and inviting, and best of all, no one looked at Katie like a ghost.

That afternoon, Mox had taken Katie out for lunch at Grimmond's Pub, then apparated her to the front gates of the ranch before taking off for work. 

“Mox?”

“Yeah?” asked her brother, turning.

“Are you sure I'm not...you know...cramping your style here?” asked Katie, looking down at her bag.

“What do you mean?”

“Well...I don't know...maybe the two of you want privacy, for, um-”

Mox rolled his eyes. “We're alone at the ranch practically 8 months out of the bloody year, Katie.”

“Yes, but-”

Mox waved her off. “Fine, go ahead. Leave. Break Kiran's heart. He's only been looking forward to seeing you all month.”

“Well, all right then,” said Katie, smiling as her brother kissed her brow and ruffled her hair. 

“Silly girl,” he muttered.

She waved as her Mox disappeared with a 'crack', then picked up her bag and unlatched the impressive front gate, locking it behind her with the locking charm Mox had taught her.

She was greeted immediately by a loud, indignant squawk. Katie smiled.

Aarti was Mox's hippogriff, a fancy golden female with silver-blue wings and a serene but serious gaze. She'd lost part of a wing in what Kiran thought might have been a fight with a dragon, and would be earth-bound for the rest of her days. But the creature was no less spirited for the loss...or any less dangerous, as a few trespassers had found out the hard way.

Aarti raised her head at Katie's slow approach and let out another loud screech. The hippogriff, besides being a treasured friend, served as excellent protection for the preserve, especially Shok, who was in constant danger from wizarding poachers. 

Katie bowed low to Aarti at the entrance, and, after an imperious blink or two, the beautiful beast sunk to her knees and allowed Katie to come forward and stroke her neck, pinning Katie with her remaining wing in what Katie supposed was the hippogriff equivalent of a hug. Being pregnant, the creature was more affectionate than usual, and it was nearly half an hour before the hippogriff consented to let Katie get up. The round hippogriff wandered off to check the perimeter, bobbing her head at something in the distance. Katie looked forward to the day Aarti would lay her egg- she'd never seen one before, and Hagrid said they were enormous.

Kiran spotted her and waved from the yard, beckoning her over. He had a shovel slung across one shoulder, and was wearing a pair of ratty old denims with a giant rip through the knee. His shirt was tied around his waist, muscles positively gleaming with sweat. 

Her brother’s boyfriend was gorgeous- Kiran had olive skin, green eyes, and his dark hair was usually tied back in a sloppy ponytail, though he was always happy to let Katie practice braiding it. Like Mox, he was tall and had well-muscled arms from working on the preserve. Unlike Mox, who was more prone to seriousness, Kiran loved to laugh, and was quite easygoing.

Their father had liked Kiran as well. When Katie’s grandfather had asked if it bothered him, his son being of 'a different ilk', Jack Bell had shrugged and said, “So long as he’s happy, doesn’t much matter to me. But I've told him no snogging. No father likes to see his children snogging anyone, boy or girl...or pillow.”

Mason had never quite lived down the incident with the enchanted pillow. 

Kiran had quickly become like a third brother to Katie....a brother that was happy to take her shopping, plaited her hair, and was always happy to hear about her (usually nonexistent) boy troubles, whereas Mox and Mason preferred to pretend their little sister was asexual.

Kiran dropped the shovel and pulled her into a sweaty hug. "Katie! Glad you could make it!”

“Glad somebody wanted me,” said Katie dully. 

Kiran smiled sadly as he pulled back to look at her. “Ah, Kate, parents are only human. This is a lesson you've had to learn rather early, I'm afraid."

"Yeah, well, so did you," said Katie, giving him a squeeze.

Kiran Andris was the great-grandson of Artemis Scamander, whose daughter Lelietta married Orpheus Andris the III. Their son, Basil Andris, had then married Ahalya Basir, whose family ran the largest flying carpet industry in the world. The product of their union was one daughter, Malyda, and then later, Kiran.

Ahalya now mostly ran her father’s business, and Andris worked for Gringotts as a Beast Specialist in charge of training security trolls for the larger vaults. “My father isn’t interested in anything he can’t control.” Kiran had once said, in a rare moment of bitterness. Mostly, the young man avoided talking about his family at all- Katie liked to think he thought of the Bells as his family now. Fortunately, Artemis Scamander thought Kiran's father was a prat, and quite often visited the preserve or had Kiran and Mox round for tea.

Kiran had been subsequently disowned at the age of 15 for his stance on animal rights (and his inclination towards men), and his sister Malyda would one day inherit the family business. 

“Fine by me,” Kiran had said. “Do you know how bloody boring flying carpets are?”

Katie supposed she ought to feel lucky. After all, her mother hadn't disowned her...she just didn't want to see her...at all.

“Anyway, let's have some lunch!” announced Kiran, throwing his arm around her as they walked towards the house. “What shall it be today? Shepard's pie? Lasagna? Chocolate chip pancakes?”

“Pancakes!” exclaimed Katie, smiling for the first time in days.

.....  
....  
...  
..  
.

**Third Year**

_Dear Katie,_

_Too bad about your losing season last year. But don't lose hope! Harness the power of positive-thinking! (or some shite like that.) They're always telling us that in crisis-training for when you get sealed in a vault. I don't know what positive-thinking is going to do against a lack of oxygen, but whatever makes the higher-ups happy, I guess._

_Last week we found a really cool old crypt in Cairo, filled with treasure and a lot of really pissed-off mummies. Found a really cool scarab pin they're letting me keep that I'm sending along to you (once they finished curse-checking it at the lab.)_

_Keep me updated about all your Quidditch games- this is the year, I know it!_

_Love,_  
Your most handsome brother,  
Mason 

_p.s. Stay away from boys. Trouble, the lot of them. I would know._

…..  
….  
…  
..  
.

The first time Marcus had seen Katie Bell on the pitch, she looked more like a bludger than anything resembling an actual threat.

And then she shot down the pitch, missing him by inches, and he was forced to take her a little more seriously.

As well as the rest of the bloody team.

“I swear,” cursed Bletchly, slamming his locker, “If they didn't have Potter, they'd be nothing.”

“The new chaser'll be decent in a few years,” said Marcus, before he could stop himself.

“What, the little one?” scoffed Bletchley.

“'Bout shoulder high, built like a goal post?” added Adrian, shedding his shoulder guards.

“That's the one,” replied Marcus flatly, pulling his undershirt over his head.

Terrence's gaze was more shrewd than Marcus would have liked. “She's a Gryffindor.”

“Do I need to be reminded what fucking house she's in?” snapped Marcus, tossing the top half of his uniform into his locker. 

Terrence put up his hands in mock defense. “Your grave, mate.”

“Get your head checked. You're not making any fucking sense at all,” snarled Marcus.

“I'm only saying that whole lot is trouble. They're born trouble, and grow up to be trouble.” said Terence.

“And I'm saying,” repeated Marcus slowly, “That I have no idea what the fuck you're talking about.”

And at the time, he really didn't.


	4. Chapter 4

The Flint family's Fish Owl arrived with breakfast, its great wings outstretched as it alighted just short of Marcus's pumpkin juice, scaring a first year half to death.

Marcus grimaced- the family owl was never a good sign.

Holding out his leg, Apollo blinked imperiously down at Marcus as he untied the note, reminding him eerily of his father. But the note was not from Atticus Flint- rather, it was the family house elf's untidy scrawl.

_Master Marcus,_

_You must please return to the manor immediately as soon as you is able to come. Mistress is very unwell. She is asking me for you...and for Flora._

_Maisey_

Marcus crumpled the note and pushed back from the table, and in two hours, he was walking up the Flint Estate front lawn, through the ornate wrought-iron gates and into the great mansion doors were Maisey was waiting.

“She is in a bad way, your mother, Master Marcus. She is not making sense. I is trying to get her into the house, but she is not hearing me, no, she is not listening-” The elf followed behind him as he stalked through the house, wringing her hands on the pink silk pillowcase she wore tied around her tiny frame. “Maisey is putting a cloak on her mistress, yes, but she is not keeping it on, sir-”

“Where is my father?” asked Marcus shortly.

“He is not to be bothered, sir,” said Maisey. “He is away on business.”

“Of course he is,” Marcus muttered, pushing through the mansion's garden doors and onto the massive grounds.

The Spring was slow in coming. There had been a brief warming period, followed by a cold snap that had wiped out a great deal of Professor Sprout's more fragile stock. The backyard of the Flint estates was no different; the grounds were covered in a blanket of snow, with the trees and hedges sparkling with a thick layer of hoarfrost.

“She is back here, Master Marcus, Mistress is back just here, sir-”

Flint Manor was a huge, sprawling estate with a front and back garden, each roughly the size of a Quidditch pitch. 

Once, topiaries of horses and knights guarded the winding pathways, and marble fountains shimmered and bubbled with clear, clean water. In a pond in back, a beautiful black swan and several fluffy cygnets once glided thought the water under a curtain of an old willow tree every year.

The garden had been beautiful, too- flowers of every color and perfume had bloomed from hedges and garden beds, filling the air with rich, sweet perfumes. His mother grew roses of every size and color, and spent many afternoons tending to the rows.

There were no swans, now, and the fountains had long ago clogged with moss and dirt. The hedges, normally teeming with beautiful blooms, were spare and straggly.

The gardens were now a shadow of what they once were...and so was she.

Marcus found his mother standing at the edge of one of the rose hedges, wearing only a slip of a dressing gown. Her hair was loose and unkempt around her shoulders, filled with snarls and snowflakes. 

She was also barefoot. Snow covered her exposed toes, which were beginning to turn purple- she must have been standing out in the snow for an hour, at least.

“Maisey, run a hot bath,” he told the house elf.

“Of course, Master Marcus,” said Maisey, and disapparated.

“Mother.” said Marcus, approaching her.

Vesta turned and smiled at her son, and Marcus had to brace himself against the sight. She had lost even more weight since the last time he'd seen her, and the bones of her shoulders were visible through the dressing gown- her cheeks were two sunken depressions that were tinged pink with cold. She hadn't been eating properly again.

“Mother, it's time to come inside.”

She patted him. “There you are, Marcus. I've picked some flowers for your sister. You know how she loves the yellow ones.” Vesta's thin, bony fingers were wrapped around a cluster of snow-dusted roses, their heads blackened and brittle with the frost. 

“You see? Yellow. Her favorite.” She held them out- looking closer, Marcus could see blood running down her wrists, some of it frozen in droplets to her skin.

Reaching out, Marcus pried her fingers apart and took the flowers from her. “I know.”

“Shall we put them in the nursery? She'll love to see the colors when she wakes.”

“Yeah, we'll do that,” agreed Marcus, putting the flowers in his pocket. “Let's go inside, Mom.”

Gently taking his mother's skeletal arm and winding it around his neck, Marcus picked her up at the knees and carried her inside, up the stairs to the separate room he could never remember her not sleeping in. 

Maisey had drawn a bath filled with lavender salts- steam from the water filled the room with a heavy, perfumed mist. Marcus helped his mother undress, setting the soiled clothes aside.

Neither party showed embarrassment- they were both years and minds beyond it. Picking her up once more, he lowered her gently into the bathtub- she weight almost nothing. And then Marcus Flint, troll of Slytherin, shampooed her hair and ran a sponge over her skin in the same gentle manner she had once done for him as a child. 

He waited there with her until the blue in her toes abated, and her skin had flushed a healthy pink once more. Sitting at the edge of the tub, he pulled the thorns from her hands and rubbed a salve over her palms before wrapping them in sterile gauze. 

His mother had been a beautiful woman once. It had been what drew Atticus to her in the first place- that, and her family's vast fortune, which he had happily seized upon like a trapdoor spider as soon as her family had agreed to the union. 

As a child, Marcus had sat on his parents' bed and watched her comb her hair every night before bed, the ivory teeth of the comb sliding through the white-blonde locks like silk, the small act reassuring, a sign of comfort that all was right and beautiful and calm in his small world.

Now, Marcus brushed her hair for her, patiently picking apart the tangles.

She was deteriorating more quickly now- her body and not her mind the visible marker for her decline. Her mind stayed the same- fractured, decayed, with occasional flashes of comprehension that were as terrible as the madness. 

It was hard to look at her. Her skin draped across her bones like pale silk...her once brilliant grey eyes, so like Marcus's, were cloudy and dull as paving stones. Helping her to stand and wrapping her in a clean robe, he led her to the bed and helped her into it.

Vesta Flint took his hand as he straightened. “You'll put the flowers in the room? For your sister? I want her to see them when she wakes.”

“Yeah, I will.” he promised, covering her with the blankets. “Go to sleep, Mom.”

“...when she wakes,” muttered Vesta, her eyes sliding shut.

Walking around the room, he pulled the heavy velvet curtains shut and made sure the windows were closed. When he turned back to the bed, he looked at her for a moment. She was nothing like the mother he'd known when he was very young- the beautiful, poised witch that dressed in elegant robes and wore her long silvery hair tightly coiffed with ivory pins. It was Vesta that had explained patiently about serving forks and salad forks to Marcus- Vesta that had ensured he had flying lessons and new robes when he needed them. The witch that ran the manor effortlessly- to be a mother, a wife, to be mistress of a mansion had been bred into the lines of her family for generations, and she wore that mantle proudly- that woman, that version of Vesta Flint was gone.

This sad creature, this lost soul curled up like a solemn little shrimp beneath the sheets, would have disgusted his mother, when she had sense and perspective enough to be disgusted.

And his father, the man who should have cared for her most, the very reason for her condition, had spent the last six years acting as if his wife had already died. He passed her like a ghost in the mansion, parading his whores through the hall, sealing her away like a room that had outgrown its use. 

Atticus refused to admit her to St. Mungo's, though Marcus had asked him- to send his wife there would have made the family's shame public. No, Atticus preferred to let his half-crazed wife roam the estates like a feral cat- underfed, neglected, but safely tucked away, immune from the judgment and scrutiny so common to their circle.

“I'm sorry, Mom,” muttered Marcus. But Vesta Flint was already asleep.

The elf was waiting expectantly in the doorway. 

“Get some hot water bottles and put them on her feet, and make a pot of Airmed's broth for when she wakes. Make sure she drinks it all.”

The house elf nodded. “When she is waking, Master Marcus, I should be telling Master Atticus?”

 _Fuck my father to all hells,_ thought Marcus. “No. Come and get me.”

“But Master has to go to back to his school!” protested the elf. “If Master Marcus misses his studies-”

“Just do what I say,” snapped Marcus. 

Marcus walked slowly to the study, where he threw the dead roses into the fire. Wherever his sister was now, she had no need of them.

…..  
….  
…  
..  
.

It was not until late the next day that Maisey summoned him, saying that his mother was finally up and taking a meal in her room.

Sure enough, his mother was sitting up in the large bed, her hair clean and braided over one shoulder. Maisey's doing, no doubt, not her own. He had long ago lost the hope that she would come back to herself.

When she looked at him, her gray gaze was clear- focused...at least as focused as he could remember it being. Marcus knew that this glimpse, this window, would soon slam shut again.

“Marcus,” she said, smiling, touching his cheek with her hand. “You're getting so big!”

Somehow, it was never an insult when she said it. When she said it, he felt the broadness of his shoulders as something good, not just another reminder of his resemblance to his father.

Marcus sat on the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Oh, I'm feeling fine today,” said Vesta. “How long have I been asleep?”

Years, he wanted to tell her- years. 

“Not long.”

She smiled. “How are you feeling? How is school?”

“Fine...it's fine, Mum.”

“Are you minding your marks?”

“Yes.” He lied. Even now, he was flunking his History of Magic exam in his absence. Still, he couldn't bring himself to leave her. There was something different this time, a kind of desperate pull around her that seemed on the verge of something, and Marcus was too jaded to hope that it would be lucidity.

“That's good. Later I thought we might take a stroll around the grounds. We could take Flora along, you know how she loves the flowers. And then afterward we could take our tea in the garden, and you could take her for a little ride on your new broom, just about the grounds. She does love her little rides with her big brother!”

_Nothing made the baby laugh like sitting in her big brother's lap, skimming the grounds on his broom. His arm was always wrapped securely around her tiny waist, holding her fast to his chest, and he kept his speed as low as she would tolerate. Flora was fearless- her arms spread wide, unafraid of falling as she squealed with laughter, while Marcus fought a smile at the undignified picture they presented-_

“Flora's...sleeping now,” said Marcus. Another lie. “Remember? Maisey's only just put her down.”

_His sister would always be sleeping._

“I...yes...” said Vesta, slowly, her eyes flickering over Marcus's face. “She is, isn't she?”

Reaching out, she brushed a lock of dark hair from his forehead. “My little boy....no, you're my young man now, aren't you?” Vesta moved her hand to her son's cheek. Her fingers were like ice. “It's been hard for you, hasn't it?”

For a moment, she might have been his mother again, and he might have been her son. But those people were gone. They had been gone a long time.

“It's fine.” he said, afraid to look her in the eye, afraid she'd read the lie there. 

“Ah.” His mother's hand dropped back to her side.

“Yes. Well, perhaps we'll see Flora tomorrow,” she said. And then she smiled. “And now...well, it's night, isn't it? How silly of me, to lose track of the time. We'll have our walk tomorrow.”

"Yes, mother."

“I'll look forward to it. Goodnight, Marcus,” she said, squeezing his hand, and leaned back against the pillows.

“Night, Mum.” And though there were many things Marcus wanted to say to her, in that moment, he knew she was beyond hearing them.

He found his mother the next morning, hanging from one of her silk scarves in what had once been the nursery. She'd finally done it.

There, among the dusty furniture, among teddy bears with spider webs spun over their fur and the dolls with blank, unchanging gazes, Vesta Flint's frail body twisted slowly from side to side, her toes skimming the floor. Her eyes were clear. Marcus at least had that comfort-that she was herself at last before she died.

Marcus cut her down and closed her eyes. He removed the scarf and told Maisey to make the necessary preparations.

He did not cry for her. She was free.


	5. Chapter 5

**Year Four**

_Marcus,_

_It is apparent to me that I cannot effectively relay to you the shame and humiliation you have brought to the Flint name by both the misfortune of your birth and subsequent non-achievement thereafter, not the least of which is because you are apparently too dim-witted to graduate from an institution so dilapidated and watered down by mudbloods and mutants that it is not fit for goats._

_Let me, then, express my vexation in terminology a child could understand. Whether I like it or not, you are the one heir to the Flint fortune. As such, I am forced to reform what is broken, rather than set the entire defect aside._

_Mind your studies, or find someone to cheat for you. Keep in good graces with those of influence, or simply follow and say nothing. It is to your benefit that no one expects much of you. And if you insist on playing that barbarian's bastardization of a sport, I would ask that you at least make an effort to make yourself less an ass and more a captain._

_You will take your rightful place in this family and you will attempt to make me proud, or I will make you wish you had been buried alive with your fool of a mother._

_Do not disappoint me again._

And so it was another night in the library, tucked between the Herbology stacks, doing his best to blend in amongst the long rows of old books and carts piled high with scrolls and more old books. Marcus hunched over his Muggle Studies book and stared at the words without really seeing them. The chapter on “Muggle Transportation: Planes, Trains, and Other-mobiles” was as insensible as every other chapter in the book, and Marcus had answered none of his study questions and was no closer to writing his paper on “Why Planes Fly”. 

He'd chosen the Herbology section to hunker down because no one in their right mind visited the Herbology section...well, no one in Slytherin, anyway. If Marcus Flint was caught here, amongst actual books, his entire reputation as a mindless brute would go up in flames. Montague thought he was down in the Slytherin broom shed, drawing up some new drills, while he'd told Terrence that he was going to help Pucey rub the Gryffindor staircase down with lamp oil. His only prayer of his web of lies working was if no one talked to, ran into one another, or at any point actually decided to look for him. If nothing else, he supposed he could always tell them he spent the night shagging Orchidia Parkinson. No one would question that one.

Well, possibly Orchidia Parkinson, but then there was a distinct possibility that even she had lost track.

The truth was that while Marcus was pulling 'Exceeds Expectations' in Potions, he was bordering on 'Troll' in Muggle Studies and Divination, and Snape had hinted that unless his marks improved in other areas as well, he would be writing home to Atticus Flint about his son's poor performance.

It was at times like this that Marcus appreciated the fact that he was an only child, because if Atticus Flint had had the luxury of an extra heir, Marcus was fairly sure he would have been put in a burlap sack and drowned long, long ago.

Motion in the stacks caught his attention. Long hair pulled back in a messy plait, skinny frame, the flash of a red and gold tie- Katie Bell. As he watched, she seemed to weave aimlessly through the aisles, trailing her fingertips along the spines of the books, some of which giggled at the touch. Sighing, she finally plucked a single book from the shelves, quickly thumbing through it before tucking it under her arm.

Marcus stared back down at his parchment. So far, he'd managed the title- “How Planes Fly” followed by a big fat fucking question mark. 

He could see his father's hulking form looming over him, his voice harsh, crooked teeth opening to issue spit and condemnation-

_Troll._

_Failure._

_Squib-_

Marcus's quill snapped in half. He cursed. That was the third quill today.

Katie looked up and took a startled step back when she saw him. 

Marcus glared up at her. “The fuck are you looking at?” he hissed.

Katie's replaced the book on the shelf. “Well, it's Marcus Flint, in a library. Perhaps I ought to check the windows for flying pigs.”

“Very original, Gryffindor.” muttered Marcus. 

She raised her chin a fraction. “I keep telling you, I have a name.” 

“And I'm still not sure why you expect me to remember it,” replied Marcus, digging in his bag for another quill.

“You went to school with my brothers,” said Katie. “Bell? Remember?” Everyone remembered her brothers. Mox because he was an exemplary student, the very image of House Ravenclaw...Mason because he'd blown a lot of things up. 

“No,” replied Marcus curtly.

They were both distracted by a loud sniff. Madam Pince was pushing a trolley full of books towards the back of the library, and gave both Katie and Marcus a disapproving glare.

Glancing behind her, Katie took a seat across from Marcus, plunking her book bag down on the table.

“Yeah, help yourself,” said Marcus sarcastically, moving his own book out of the way. 

“Oh, keep your knickers on,” retorted Katie. “I'm only across from you, I'm not in your bloody lap or anything. And anyway, this was _my_ spot first.” This was possibly true, as Marcus had never been in the library before today.

Well, there was also the fact that during his relatively short time on earth, Marcus had found that it was generally useless to argue with women in general, and this one in particular.

Marcus settled for staring at her as Katie proceeded to rummage around her bag and pull out a quill, a roll of parchment, and her Potions textbook, setting them on the table as if she planned on hunkering down for awhile.

Great. Just great. An unfinished paper and now an annoying little distraction sitting in front of him. Marcus tried glaring at her for a few moments, but it didn't work. She wasn't leaving.

And damnit, neither was he. He wasn't going to be displaced by an annoying little Gryffindor...no matter **how** annoying.

Along with that unwelcome revelation came another- this little Gryffindor, this tiny slip of a girl, really wasn't scared of him at all. Three years and at least two dozen fouls committed on the pitch, several insults off of it, and a few heavy-handed threats (and heavy-handed blows) exchanged between houses in general, and she approached him as if he were as benign as a loaf of fucking bread.

As if to prove his point, Katie sat and kept digging, removing half an apple core, a few crumpled notes, and what looked like a dead mouse carcass. 

Marcus's initial impression of the last object turned out to be correct; Katie let out a little shriek and sent the corpse flying with a wild flick of her hand. She quickly clapped a hand over her mouth, but Madam Pince seemed nowhere in sight. 

Marcus snickered, but resisted a smile. He had learned long ago that smiling showed his teeth, which were yet another reminder of how little he had inherited from his mother.

...and how much he resembled his father.

As a very young child, Marcus had been teased relentlessly...until he grew large enough to knock his tormentors' teeth down their throats. They still thought he was a huge, hulking troll, of course, but they kept their opinions to themselves. That was the beauty of Marcus's reputation, and why he worked so hard to maintain it- people didn't expect too much of him, or try to bully him, or try to befriend him- largely, with the exception of Terence or Adrian, they left him the fuck alone.

Katie made a face and wiped her hand on her robes, glancing back at the dead mouse. “It's my cat, Sophie. She keeps leaving them everywhere. I suppose she thinks its a present.” 

Leaning forward, Katie peered over at Marcus's paper. “Airplanes?”

Marcus pulled the parchment towards himself, glaring at her. 

“Oh, I've ridden those loads of times. Did you need help on it?”

“I can write it myself, thanks,” snarled Marcus, wondering when in the fuck this girl decided they were friends. 

Katie rolled her eyes. “Or I could help you, and you'd have done with it in about half the time.”

Marcus simply stared at her, willing her to disappear. If someone caught him here in the library, he'd never hear the end of it, not to mention sitting at the same table with an annoying little Gryffindor that barely reached his armpit. 

“And what do you _want_?” asked Marcus.

“Want?” repeated Katie dumbly.

“For helping.”

Katie blinked at him for a moment. “Oh, that's right, you Slytherin lot never do anything for each other without wanting something back.” She thought for a moment. “Well, I suppose you might teach me that Wollongong Shimmy.”

Marcus curled his lip. “Are you mental? I can't be seen with-”

“Well, I'm not asking you to hold my bloody hand, am I?” snapped Katie. “Next time there's an Open Fly, just let me watch you do it. I learned a lot of moves watching my brothers, and from books.”

“You really think you can learn from me?” he asked, smirking.

Katie shrugged. “You're a fair flier, when you're not arse-deep in penalties.”

Marcus studied her a moment. Well, if it got his Muggle Studies work done....

“Fine,” said Marcus. 

“Fine,” said Katie, setting down her quill. “Now, first thing you need to know about Muggle airplanes is lift, thrust, drag, and weight-”

They continued on like that for the next fifteen minutes, with Marcus scribbling away and Katie whispering about baggage claims, plane engines, and in-flight meals. That was, until Pince found the dead mouse lodged in the Magical Plants of the Americas section.

“WHO ON EARTH PUT THIS HERE?!” came the screech.

Wincing, Katie grabbed her book bag and fled. There was no way for Madam Pince to prove it was her, of course, but as Katie explained to Marcus later, she'd already exploded a can of muggle soda practicing her Transfiguration homework, and was on thin ice already.

Marcus looked after her as she fled the library, and resisted a smile. 

Bloody Gryfindors.  
…...  
….  
…  
..  
. 

A week later, despite his better judgment, Marcus sat across from Katie once more, trying to concentrate on Muggle Studies and doing a piss poor job as usual. What the hell was a bicycle, anyway, and why the hell would anyone want to ride one? The unicycle made even less sense. Muggles were fucking mental.

Katie, however, appeared to be actually studying, and was oblivious to his dilemma. A crease had appeared in her brow, a sign that she was taking something seriously for a change.

“Potions?” asked Marcus, glancing at her notes. 

“Yeah. Not doing so well,” admitted Katie, sighing. “It's Snape, he makes me nervous. I've mucked up half my potions in class, so I've got to do really well on all the papers.”

Marcus shrugged. “Snape's not so bad.”

“Yeah, says the Slytherin,” scoffed Katie, trialing her finger down a chunk of text, muttering to herself as she fished for an answer. 

“It's clover,” said Marcus, craning his head to read her paper upside down.

“What?” 

“The answer's clover. You use clover to negate the rash commonly associated with the Frostbane potion when it makes contact with the skin. Four-leaf is best if you can get it, but three-leaf works okay.”

At Katie's surprised look, he glowered. “I'm not a total fucking idiot.”

“No, you've just got bad taste in Quidditch teams,” said Katie, smiling. “Thanks, Marcus.”

Katie bent her head and scratched away with her quill, leaving Marcus to his thoughts. 

He hadn't been entirely truthful the other day when he said he hadn't heard of her family- he was acquainted with both of her brothers, but it was difficult to believe that she was related to either one. While Mox and Mason Bell had identical coloring and blue eyes, Katie's eyes were a dark hazel, and she had a generous smattering of freckles sprinkled across her nose that stayed regardless of the season. There was also the matter of temperament- while both the Bell brothers were known to be usually calm, cool, and collected, Katie reminded him a bit of a niffler in Gringotts- excitable, enthusiastic, and just a touch erratic.

Madam Pince gave them a nasty look as she walked by. Marcus had the feeling they were still at the top of the list of suspects for the dead mouse incident.

As she leaned over her Potions notes to check something, her necklace spilled out from under her robes and rapped against the table, making Marcus look up.

“What is that necklace, anyway? A miniature Snitch? You never take it off.”

Katie's hand went to the golden charm, once again tucking it under her shirt. “Just something my Dad gave me,” she muttered.

“He give you presents often?” asked Marcus, imagining a spoiled little girl getting everything she set her eyes on by an overly indulgent father. It would certainly explain the unflinching attitude, the unshakable confidence, and the bullheaded persistence.

“Not anymore,” replied Katie shortly, dipping her quill in ink.

“How come?”

“Just doesn't.” With that, Katie drew her quill across the parchment hard enough to slice through it. She cursed and pulled out a new roll.

“You've just got two brothers, right?” asked Marcus.

“Yup. Two older brothers. They've graduated already. Mox works for the Ministry as a Hunter for Class 5 creatures, and Mason's a Curse Breaker for Gringotts, although I think he mostly blows things up,” said Katie. “And I was sort of a surprise that came later. Mum thought she'd finally gotten the girl she wanted, but I was as good as another boy. All I wanted to do was play Quidditch with my brothers.”

Someone dropped a book and let out a curse. Both Katie and Marcus glanced behind them, both on the lookout for the cantankerous librarian...or anyone from their own house. “I've never heard of your family name, though.”

“Well, you wouldn't have, would you?” replied Katie lightly, flipping through 'Fun with Fungi: Two Thousand Magical Mushrooms'. “My father was a muggle.”

“Your mother's a witch, though?”

“Yeah, an offshoot of some big old wizarding family, Mum never talks about it. She was from your house, even. Sel-something? Anyway, they shut her out when she married Dad.”

“A Selwyn?” repeated Marcus, eyebrows raised. 

Katie didn't look up from her book. "Yeah, that's it. Never met any of them, obviously."

Marcus leaned back in his chair. “That's one of the Sacred Twenty-eight names.”

“Sorry, the what?”

“One of the last true pure-blood families. It's in the directory.”

“Directory?” parroted Katie.

“The Pure-blood Directory. It's a list of Pure-blood families.”

Katie looked unimpressed with his revelation. “And you actually _read_ that?” she scoffed, sitting back.

“I _can_ read,” replied Marcus darkly.

“Oh, come off it,” snapped Katie. “I was speaking to the highly disputable quality of the material, not your literacy.”

Marcus shrugged. “My father's a fan.” It was required reading in the Flint household.

“Your father would have been a big fan of the Heir of Slytherin, then,” said Katie grimly.

“It's not like you had to worry about it. You're half-blood-”

Katie snorted. “Pure-blood, half-blood, mudblood, it's all a lot of rubbish. Even if I could hide my heritage, I wouldn't. And I shouldn't have to. Nobody should.” Marcus raised an eyebrow.

“You've got a lot of opinions.”

“What, for a girl?” she sniped, jabbing her quill into her inkwell.

“No. For anyone,” replied Marcus honestly. 

Katie aimed a kick at him underneath the table, but she was smiling.

And when Marcus smiled back, she didn't flinch at his teeth. She just smiled wider.

…..  
….  
…  
..  
.

 

Katie generally followed the school rules, but with friends like Fred and George, you were bound to get detention once in awhile simply by matter of association. This particular incident involved deck of exploding snap cards and Montague's Quidditch uniform pants, so Katie could not entirely regret her current circumstances.

And as this detention featured working with Hagrid, Katie faced the prospect cheerfully enough. It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon, and Katie threw on an old jumper and a pair of ratty denims and headed down to Hagrid's hut. As much as Katie would have liked to be irritated with the twins, Fred and George were currently spending the afternoon with Filch, scrubbing the statue of Limerand the Licentious, (which seemed to Katie to be an odd statue to have at a school for children). All things considered, Katie thought that they were probably being punished enough. 

“Hello Katie,” said Hagrid cheerfully. “Fred and George, eh?”

“Hello Hagrid,” said Katie, smiling. “Right in one.”

“Bad influence, those two.” The groundskeeper chuckled. “I'm a bit tied up at the mo', so if you could jus' go t'the hippogriff paddock, tidy up, give 'em some pats or brush an' a lump o' sugar or two. An don't forgeh' t'bow, yeh remember, righ?”

“Sure thing.”

Hagrid smiled at her. “Reckon ye kin handle 'em without my help. How's Mox an' Kiran?”

“Really good,” said Katie. “They've got two new mooncalves this year. You should come and visit.”

After saying goodbye to Hagrid, Katie filled her coat pockets with sugar cubes and earthworms and grabbed Hagrid's box of grooming tools, which included a brush and a large bottle of linseed oil.

As Katie rounded the corner, she was surprised to see Marcus Flint forking hay into the paddock. Well, perhaps 'surprised' was the wrong word. Marcus Flint and detention were not exactly unknown to one another. Further out in the field, Katie could see the outline of Neville Longbottom near a crop of trees, and a few other students digging for grubs. Well, at least she wasn't on grub duty, she thought, waving to Neville. 

Marcus looked up at her approach. “What're you here for, Gryffindor?”

“Once again, I do have a name,” said Katie tiredly, swinging her leg over the fence and dropping down. “And let's just say that Fred and George's plans aren't exactly the image of perfect planning. You? Eat a kitten? Steal bogies from a puffskein?”

“Failing Divination,” replied the older boy, shoveling another forkful of hay into the enclosure.

She grinned. “Didn't see that one coming, did you?”

“Very funny.”

Two unicorns were in with the hippogriffs, a mother and her colt, and the baby approached Katie cautiously, tail swishing. 

Katie held out her hand, exposing the sugar cubes, and soon enough the little golden foal was nuzzling her hand and letting her stroke his neck.

Marcus smirked. “Still pure, Bell?”

Katie glared at him, stroking animal's velvety neck. “None of your damned business. Is it?”

The mother nickered at her colt from across the paddock, and the baby came running back to her, giving Marcus a wide berth. 

Katie shook her head at the scene. Apparently Marcus Flint was not a virgin. She wasn't sure why the revelation surprised her...or bothered her just a little. Perhaps it was the idea of Slytherins having sex at all, she reasoned.

Wiping her hands on her denims, Katie picked up the brush from the tacklebox, making a low trilling sound in her throat that Kiran had taught her. A female hippogriff on the fringe of the herd raised her head, and after Katie bowed low, came trotting over to her at the sight of the brush.

Marcus looked after the unicorns. “What's wrong, then, Kathryn, none of your fellow Gryffindors up to it?”

It was like hitting a switch. Katie's face darkened immediately.

“Don't call me that,” she snapped.

“What, 'virgin'?” he smirked.

“No. Kathryn.”

“Why not, isn't that the name you're so insistent I remember?”

Katie ignored him, running the brush over the beast's coat. The hippogriff eyed Marcus beadily with her brilliant orange eyes, seeming to sense the source of the girl's irritation. 

Marcus took a step back and picked up another forkful of hay. After Malfoy's idiotic brush with death, he'd gained a healthy respect for the creatures.

“So what, did an ex-boyfriend call you that or something?” persisted Marcus.

“No,” replied Katie. “My Dad.”

“And?”

“And _what?_ ” she snapped, irritated.

“What soured the name for you? Did he run off with the chambermaid? Dirt you and your mother or something? Didn't buy you enough teddy bears growing up?”

“No.” said Katie flatly. “He died.”

“When?”

“My first year,” replied Katie, patting the hippogriff's dappled flank as she walked around to the other side. 

“Sorry,” said Marcus shortly, turning away.

Katie snorted. “I doubt it,” she replied. “He was a Muggle.”

Marcus was silent, staring off into the distance. The Thestral herd was moving along the fringes of the forest- two colts following six adults. One of the adults turned its skeletal neck, calling back to the little ones- a high, keening call that sent a shiver down Marcus's spine.

“You can see them too, huh?” asked Katie quietly. “Pulling the carriages?”

“Yeah.”

“Who was it for you?”

“My mother.” lied Marcus, turning away. “How'd he die, anyway, your Dad?”

Katie looked at him for a moment, and he knew she was weighing the wisdom of telling him against any natural desire answer his question. “He was a policeman-”

“A please-man?” repeated Marcus, thinking of muggle politics.

“No. He protected people...he put people away that broke Muggle laws.”

“Like an Auror?”

“Sort of.” 

“What happened to him?”

“Got shot by an addict holding up a green grocer's. Shot him and the owner. His brain died before his body did. Eventually we took him off the machines that were keeping him alive.” said Katie, simply, patting the hippogriff's flank as she moved around to the other side. “You've got two decent chasers this year,” she said. “Too bad your Seeker's an idiot.”

Marcus noted the abrupt change of subject. “Yes, well, we can't all have Potter the Wonderboy, can we?”

“Wood says he's got a good feeling this year.” 

“What, as opposed to last year? Or the year before?” 

“Oh, shut it.” Taking the hippogriff's wing joint in her hands, Katie pushed at it delicately with her knuckle, and the animal unfurled its great gray wing without hesitation, with Katie standing under it like an awning. Sunlight filtered through the feathers, highlighting her hair.

Marcus went back to shoveling hay, plunging the pitchfork into the bale harder than necessary. 

Gently, Katie began to run her fingers along the animal's feathers, applying the oil, while the hippogriff tossed her head happily. Absently, Marcus watched the gentle motions of her fingers and wondered where she had learned to do that.

“Wood doesn't know his ass from his elbow. Picked eye candy for chasers and the same two idiots for beaters again-”

“Excuse me,” said Katie, bursting out laughing. “Eye candy? On the pitch, Wood doesn't know a breast from a bludger. Besides, isn't this coming from the man who chose size over skill this year?”

“Yeah well, they weren't all _my_ choices, were they.” replied the elder Slytherin darkly.

Katie's brow creased. “But...you're the Captain. You pick the players, don't you?” 

“Very astute.” snapped Marcus, plunging the pitchfork into the dirt. “You really don't have a bloody clue how the world works, do you?”

“And what exactly does _that_ mean?” asked Katie, pausing in her pampering of the hippogriff to glare at him.

“It means there are politics involved. Parents want their kids to play Quidditch. Parents with influence in the outside world. You know, the world outside this little school.”

Katie raised her eyebrows at the revelation. “It isn't like that in Gryffindor.”

Marcus heaved another heapful of hay over the fence. “Bully for Gryffindor. You're giving me a fucking cavity, it's all so fucking sweet.” 

The hippogriff, apparently annoyed at the loss of attention, nudged Katie with her beak, nearly toppling her over. Katie gave the animal an exasperated look and resumed brushing. Marcus snorted.

“People are all out for themselves, Bell. The sooner you learn that, the happier you'll be.”

“You're not.”

“Excuse me?”

“That day on the Hogwarts Express. You brought Sophie back to me, and you didn't have to.”

“You think...because...” Marcus laughed, but it was humorless. “You Gryffindors really are all the same. All naïve as fuck, swinging on rainbows, eating bon-bons and having do-gooder circle jerks, all ready to believe that everyone else wants to save the fucking world. You're going to get eaten alive outside that high-flown little house of yours, Bell.”

Katie resumed her brushing of the hippogriff. “So what, your answer is to assume everyone's an asshole out for themselves? How's that working out for you?”

“Just fucking fine, thanks,” snapped Marcus, hefting another heavy forkful of hay over the fence.

The two worked in quiet for awhile, each busy with their own thoughts.

“You know,” said Katie thoughtfully, breaking the silence. “I think it would be worse to expect nothing from people than to be disappointed sometimes.”

“And where'd you get that little gem from?” 

A shrug. “My dad used to say that,” said Katie quietly. 

“Yeah, and how'd that work out for him?” snapped Marcus nastily. 

Katie flinched as if he'd physically struck her. 

She didn't yell. She didn't punch him. Just stared at him from behind the hippogriff, her face naked with hurt and fury, and somehow, that was worse.

Marcus plunged the pitchfork into the dirt and stomped off, not caring if he got detentions for the rest of the week for skiving off this one, just knowing he had to get away before he said anything else stupid.

He wished she'd punched him- they'd both have felt better.

 

…....  
….  
…  
..  
.

_Dear Katie,_

_Parle vous francais? The answer is “not well” in your brother's case, so this trip has taken longer than planned. I actually thought the Abraxan's owner was going to punch him in the face when he confused 'horse' and 'your wife' (once again, your brother is terrible in foreign languages.) After that, I took over. Still, I think we'll be flying home with the filly very soon- can't wait for you to meet her! She's gorgeous!_

_I don't mind the delay- the shops around here are great and I've already picked up some wonderful things for you. There's a lot of little outdoor cafes and I've caught up on some reading as well- your brother, of course, is itching to get back to the ranch. It's only a week- I'm sure Abhay can handle things for a week (as long as he doesn't try to pet Shok.) Hmmm...maybe I'd best owl him, yeah?_

_How is school going? Do you have dozens of boyfriends? I know Mox wants you to enter the convent straight out of Hogwarts, but you know I'm personally rooting for you in the romance department. I want all the details!_

_Do we have the pleasure of expecting you for Christmas hols again this year? I hope so- the fairies have been breeding up a storm and I want the tree to glow. Best bring sunglasses to be safe._

_Lots of love,  
Kiran_

…..  
….  
…  
..  
.

The weekend's usual free-fly was poorly attended, owing to the enthusiastic downpour that had begun in the morning and held strong into the afternoon. Madam Hooch, dressed in a heavy cloak and sitting beneath the stands, seemed content to let the die-hards practice in the pouring rain, so long as they stayed away from the metal posts. 

There were five people out in total, all soaked to the bone; Oliver Wood and Angelina Johnson, who were practicing their passing, Katie Bell, who was practicing her dives, Cedric Diggory, who was chasing a snitch around, and Anora Sweetstone, a Ravenclaw hopeful for next year's team, who was spending more time staring at Cedric than actually flying.

“Out for a fly today, Mr. Flint? Lovely weather for it.”

Marcus nodded before pulling the hood over his head and taking off. The cloak was useless- he was immediately soaked. Adjusting his grip on the handle, he lowered himself over the pitch and took off, pushing the broom as fast as it could go towards the opposite end of the pitch, welcoming the cold rain stinging his face. 

Katie had given up on dives and was attempting to pass to herself- a difficult maneuver made even more difficult by the rain making the Quaffle slick. Marcus heard her curse as the ball slipped from her fingers, plummeting to the ground below. Lowering himself, Marcus dropped beneath it, catching it just before it hit the ground.

Katie had stopped her broom's motion and watched him as he flew up to her height. She had removed her hood- her hair was plastered to her face and her normally kind eyes were bright with anger when she looked at him. 

He held out the Quaffle to her- she watched him warily, not taking it. “Something else you wanted to say, Flint?” she asked. “Something else about how it was my Dad's fault he's dead?”

_'Flint'. He was in trouble._

“It's-” began Marcus, but the words felt as alien on his tongue as another language. He could practically hear his father's voice echoing between his ears. 

_”Flints don't apologize, boy. Never. It's a weakness.”_

“I'm-”

“All right there, Katie?” asked Oliver. He and Angelina had stopped their drills and had flown up to see what was going on. Oliver's look was openly hostile, while Johnson's was more curious than anything.

“I-” said Katie, not looking at him. “Yes, everything's fine. Go back to your drills.”

“Well, holler if you need us,” said Angelina, eying Marcus with less hostility than her housemate, though perhaps rather more suspicion.

“Watch yourself, Flint,” added Oliver coolly before turning his broom back towards the goal posts. Marcus resisted the urge to knock him off his broom. Force of habit.

“You were saying?” asked Katie. 

“I-” Marcus looked away. His words seemed to have lodged in his throat.

Katie took the Quaffle from him and tucked it under her arm. “You're sorry? You're an arse? You'll never say shite like that again? You'll show me the damned Wollongong Shimmy now?”

“Yeah.” 

When he looked at her again, her expression had softened into the familiar 'Katie' expression he had apparently grown so used to, and something in his chest seemed to come untangled.

“Well, all right, then.”

Marcus was flabbergasted. She'd forgiven him so quickly, so easily- she should have lashed back, should have made things even.

...yet if she was willing to forgive him, he wasn't about to question it.

They spent the rest of the afternoon out in the rain, soaked to the bone, rising and diving like sparrows on opposite ends of the pitch, each surreptitiously watching the other, Marcus nodding or shaking his head to show her progress.

No one watching would have assumed they were flying together, but when Katie pulled successfully out of the dive, grinning, Marcus felt her victory like it was his own.


	6. Chapter 6

The Bell family owl, named Sparticus, had been struck by lightening four years ago. The bird had survived the ordeal, give or take a few singed feathers, and could still deliver post...in a manner of speaking. One had to plan for a significant delay in delivery, however, as the owl usually delivered the letter to anyone -but- the intended recipient. Sparticus got it there, eventually, but when Katie needed something delivered on time, she used the school owls.

This went double for when she was sending letters to a certain recipient.

_Flint-_

_I thought I might take a break from all the hugging and the do-gooder circle jerks to go to Hogsmeade on Saturday. Hooch said she'd have an open-fly Sunday morning for anyone interested when I asked her, since she's got to try out the new snitches and needs people to catch them afterwards (you'll have to bring gloves, of course). Maybe I'll see you there. You going to Hogsmeade?_

_-K_

_p.s. You see Noriyuki Satō's feint on Puddlemere's Keeper last match? Backwards pass to goal with a sharp bank to put on some spin- really nice!_

_….._  
….  
…  
..  
. 

_Bell-_

_Yeah, I saw it. If you want to pull off a goal like that, you'd better get your reverse pass up to speed._

_To that end, might want to work on your forward pass too._

_And your flying in general._

_Maybe I'll see you Sunday._

_-M_

 

…..  
….  
…  
..  
.

Hogsmeade found Katie with the usual crowd. Angelina, Alicia, Lee, Fred, George, and Oliver all made their normal stop at the Three Broomsticks for butterbeers, then split up to run their separate errands. Fred and George headed to Dogweed and Deathcaps for some 'new ingredients'- no one seemed to want to ask what for. 'Plausible Deniability,' muttered Lee, heading off in the opposite direction.

Angelina and Alicia wanted some new dress robes, and Lee wanted to check out Zonko's new inkcaps. That left Katie and Oliver, who headed to Spintwitches, as both needed some new Fleetwoods High-Finish Handle Polish. Oliver went to meet up with the twins after, so Katie waved him off and headed over to Honeydukes, where she bought a few things to send home to her brothers and a large maple ice cream with chopped nuts for herself. Elbow to elbow with the other occupants of the crowded store, she turned to leave and ran directly into the human wall behind her, nearly dropping her ice cream. 

“Watch it, Gryffindor,” came a familiar voice, though there was no venom in it. Katie looked up. It was Marcus Flint was wearing a pair of denims and an emerald green sweater, holding a rather large bag of pepper imps. It was strange to see him out of robes and Slytherin house colors- he looked, well, almost human.

“Watch it yourself, Slytherin,” she replied, smiling at the thought. “You going to the free fly tomorrow, then?”

He shrugged. “Might,” he said, dropping a few coins into Ambrosius Flume's plump hand.

“It's a good opportunity for practicing cornering, I think, with the new snitches.”

“Corners as sloppy as yours, Bell, you're going to need a whole box.” 

“Says the bloke who steers _his_ broom like a bloody steamroller,” retorted Katie, rolling her eyes.

Marcus shrugged. “It's effective.” They ducked outside- Marcus held the door for her, which had Katie raising her eyebrows.

“So long as your opponents are smaller than you, sure,” said Katie, catching a dribble of ice cream as it darted down her cone. “But that won't always be the case.”

“Oh?” 

“I mean on the professional level. You've seen Marek Mayberry from Puddlemere? The man could practically use two brooms, one for each half of him. You couldn't displace him if you tried.”

“Yeah, and a first year could out-fly him. He's a beater, anyhow.”

Katie smiled. “Well, perhaps if you practiced your flying technique a little more, you could have faked out Fred last game and actually made that last goal without taking a bludger to the arm and missing wide right.”

Marcus scowled. “You-”

“See you tomorrow, Flint!” she called cheerfully, waving as she walked off.

Marcus shook his head, glancing after her as he walked off in the other direction. He was too absorbed in his thoughts to notice his Head of House, Professor Snape, and the particularly shrewd expression the Potions Master wore as Marcus passed him.

…..  
….  
…  
..  
.

At the approach of the winter holidays, everyone in the Slytherin dorm that wasn't staying was packing, preparing to pack, or putting off packing for as long as possible. Marcus belonged to the last group, and had spent the afternoon in the Great Hall before reluctantly descending the stairs to the Quidditch common room.

Both Terence and Adrian were smirking at him when he arrived, which was an early warning sign that the mickey was about to be vigorously taken.

“You've got a guest in your bed, Flint,” said Terence, glancing behind them. 

“Yeah, she's waiting for you, mate.” said Adrian, after which both burst into laughter. "Primed, that one."

“What'd you do?” asked Marcus darkly. “Who _exactly_ did you let in?”

“Oh, we didn't 'let' her in,” smirked Terence. “She let herself in.”

“And you didn't stop her _why_?” Marcus's tone was growing darker.

“Wouldn't be stopped,” said Terence.

“Indomitable force of nature,” smirked Adrian. “It was your room or nothing at all. Practically had your name written on her.”

Marcus looked from one friend to the other. “Wait here. I'll be back to kick your arses directly.” he said, stalking past them. Laughter followed in his wake.

Marcus pulled back the green velvet curtains on his bed, and there she was, sprawled out on his pillow like she owned the place and looking rather pleased with herself.

“The fuck-”

A small, cream-colored kitten with ginger-tipped ears and a thick bottle-brush tail peered back at him with a set of curious bright blue eyes. She was wearing a red bow around her neck, upon which a note had been attached. 

'TO MARCUS FLINT.'

Reaching out, Marcus disentangled the note as she batted playfully at his hands.

_Marcus,_

_Thanks for showing me the Wollongong Shimmy. Think I've got the hang of it now! (Only wrecked twice so far...told Pomfrey I ran into the Giant Squid.)_

_This is one of Sophie's kittens. She's had eight total- I suspect Crookshanks. I've found homes for all the other kittens, but I've been saving this one for a special home. Someone who'll spoil her. She's a bit of a brat, but she's my favorite- she's quite clever, and a very good mouser!_

_She likes cream and sardines best, though she's old enough to catch mice for herself now._

_Happy Christmas,_

_Katie_

_p.s. Don't eat her. She's a gift._

Marcus fell back onto the bed, heaving a great, exasperated sigh. The kitten, evidently taking this for an invitation, stalked forward and made herself comfortable on his chest, purring. Marcus opened an eye to regard her.

_Fucking Gryffindors. Even their cats were a pain in the ass._

He glared at her, but like Katie, she didn't seem to be afraid of him at all. He should return the thing, drop it back on the Fat Lady's doorstep. Or drown it, maybe...that was what his father would do.

The kitten stared down at him, gently touching her small pink nose to his face. Her eyes were a soft, jewel-bright blue...like another little girl's he'd known...a long, long time ago.

Despite himself, Marcus reached out and covered the kitten's head with his big, calloused hand. 

_Fucking Gryffindors. What the hell was he going to do with a stupid cat?_  
…..  
….  
…  
..  
.

“-and a jobberknoll in a puffapod tree!” sang Kiran and Mason, propping each other up. Two bright pink pygmy puffs were perched on Kiran's head like antennae, while Mason was positively glowing with faeries that Kiran and Katie had stuck to both his sweater and his shaggy crop of hair. Mason had talked Kiran into a drinking contest which both had apparently lost, and the two were now singing Christmas carols at full volume (if slightly off-key and substituting fairly inappropriate lyrics), and inviting requests. So far, Katie's favorite was “Jingle Balls” followed closely by “I Came Upon a Midnight Clear (in my pants)”.

Balancing a tray of drinks and sandwiches, Mox rolled his eyes at Katie in a conspiratorial manner as he navigated the room, dodging pygmy puffs, shoes, and other guests. It being Christmas, Mooncusser ranch was decorated with the usual tinsel, trees, and faeries, who seemed to have had a particularly successful breeding season this year. Several guests were brightly decorated, and they also happily decorated trees, sweaters, and even pets- Sophie had a collar positively twinkling with them and looked rather pleased with herself. 

Katie sincerely hoped she hadn't eaten any of them. 

Katie knew a fair number of Kiran, Mox, and Mason's friends, having bullied her way into several pick-up Quidditch games at the park near their home as a child, and had been having a nice discussion with Altus Podmore, a dragon tamer Mox knew through Charlie Weasley.

Since it was a special holiday, Katie was permitted to have a mug or two of mulled cider. (Or three, if she was sneaky.) Letting her third glass warm her hands, Katie gazed for a moment into the fire, droning out the noises of celebration around her. If her father were here, he'd probably be in the thick of the singing with Kiran and Mason, wearing his usual ridiculous Christmas hat and dancing with anyone within arm's reach. Her father had loved Christmas, and he had made her love it, too. 

At times like these, Katie missed her father so badly it hurt. 

Her mother was working overtime at Madam Malkin's doing alterations for gowns for the Greengrass's annual ball- she'd sent her apologies and gifts for all of her children, which sat, still wrapped, under the tree. Katie knew her mother missed Christmas's with her father as much as anyone, but her mother's strategy seemed to be to avoid the holiday altogether...like everything else.

“Merry Christmas, Papa Bear,” muttered Katie into the fire, grasping her pendant and hoping that wherever her father had gone to, he could still hear the sentiment she wished him every year.

Absently, Katie wondered what Marcus was doing...then immediately shook the thought out of her head, wondering where it had come from. What did Pureblood Slytherins do on a holiday, anyway? Arrange marriages and pile their galleons into festive stacks? She'd have to ask.

Sighing, Katie polished off the rest of her cider, got to her feet, and after dodging a very drunk coworker of Mason's who had gotten hold of some mistletoe, joined Mason and Kiran at the piano for their latest in musical butchery, which sounded like some new, perverted version of the 12 Days of Christmas involving a 6 Veelas stripping, two horny hippogriffs and an old codger having a pee. 

…..  
….  
…  
..  
.

Flint Manor had fifty-two rooms in total. 

One grand foyer in the front, one conservatory in the back, one linen room, two greeting rooms and a servants' quarters with six separate bedrooms. There were two kitchens, one pantry, and two storage rooms for extra furniture and old trunks. There was a root cellar, a meat cellar, and a kennel that had nothing but old leashes and leads. 

There were two trophy rooms, each crowded with stuffed creatures with glassy eyes, locked chests filled with galleons and very old suits of armor draped with cobwebs thick as capes. Most of the Flint fortune, however, was stored at Gringotts. Two libraries flanked either side of the main house, each with a grand fireplace and heavy velvet curtains. There were 17 bedrooms in the main mansion, three offices, two dining rooms, an apothecary, and a prison complete with seven cells, a rack, and an enchanted Iron Maiden. As a child, Marcus had obsessed over the shadows steeped into the stone floor, wondering if they were blood. 

As an adult, he knew for certain, and found he preferred guessing.

There was a wine cellar filled with wine as old as Merlin himself, which Marcus was pretty sure made it glorified vinegar by now. He and Terrence had drank some of it once and made themselves sick. Two small windowless rooms flanked the wine cellars, each with several enchanted locks on the door. Vertical slashes scored the walls- Marcus would later recognize them as marks made by fingernails, by desperate prisoners trying to claw their way out. An ornate chair had been propped up against the outside of those walls, accompanied by a small table for a wine glass and bottle of wine. 

Marcus could easily imagine Atticus Flint sitting in that old wingback chair, sipping wine and listening to the screams and scratches echoing off the walls until they trailed off into silence.

There was a small greenhouse and a potting shed that had been overtaken by vines. A stable stood off to the side of the property, but as far as Marcus could remember, there had never been horses, only bales of hay and a few dusty halters. There was also a small Owlery where the Flints kept their post owls, though Marcus did not consider that so much a room than a small stone tower encrusted with bird shit and mouse carcases.

The backyard of the estate featured a sprawling green lawn, complete with two separate gardens. His mother had loved the gardens and spent many hours out on the grounds, tending to her roses...when she was able. In her last years, she simply sat in the gardens, staring at the overgrown hedges with unfocused eyes. In those years, Marcus had cut the roses for her and had them placed in her room. He'd had broths prepared and made sure she ate them. He had tended to her the way she had once tended to him, though he knew, even then, that she was lost to him.

Marcus's favorite rooms in the house were the library and the gardens. Not because he was particularly fond of reading or of gardening, but because these were rooms his father did not frequent. Atticus Flint had no use for books and he had no love of plants, so Marcus was free to spend summer afternoons in the hedges, relaxing and eating the snacks Maisey prepared for him, or skimming the lawns of the estate on his broom. On rainy days, he'd bring his broom into the towering library and practice his cornering, whipping around the shelves and knocking the book spines with the soles of his shoes. He'd toppled an entire row of shelves, once, but that was years ago. He could thread a needle around those corners in his sleep now.

Being Christmas, however, it was too cold to be in the gardens for long. Still, Marcus had taken his broom for a few sweeps up and down the icy grounds before retiring for the evening when his feet began to freeze. Terrence and Adrian had never seen the inside of Flint manor- none of his friends had. His mother had to be shut away from prying eyes, and even now that she was gone, Marcus still had no wish to bring anyone here.

Maisey was familiar with Marcus's haunts, and had set out a mug of hot chocolate on a table in the study. She'd even left Marcus's presents in front of the fire- the house elf's presents were always homemade. This year, it was woolen scarf, knitted with white and green yarn, and a tin of butter cookies. Since his mother had fallen ill, it was Maisey that had filled in the gaps, seeing to his immediate needs, making sure he had new clothes for school, had enough to eat, and occasionally mailing parcels full of sweets. The old elf had belonged to his mother's family, and now, Marcus supposed, she belonged to him. His father's family had their own elf, Grimlis, who seemed to share his father's low opinion of Marcus. The two generally avoided one another.

Marcus ate a cookie while warming his toes in front of the crackling fire, his back braced against one of the old wingback chairs. 

His father might be somewhere in the manor tonight, or perhaps at one of the many holiday parties the wizarding upper-crust seemed so fond of, drinking mulled cider and toasting to their pureblood empires: to their fat stacks of galleons and future heirs. Soon, Marcus knew he would be required to attend these events- he was already obliged to attend the Greengrasses' New Years party, something he was not looking forward to in the slightest. Drinks, dancing, and a herd of sharp-eyed pureblood witches all sizing up his family's Gringott's vault. Kissing the right asses, making connections- “strengthening the line”.

For now, however, Marcus could enjoy his solitude. His father was rarely there for dinners, and the holidays were not an exception. Atticus Flint had no use for the holidays like Christmas, and his employees more often than not worked the holiday as well.

His mother was the one that had decorated a tree with fairy lights and sung carols when he was younger. She had organized holiday parties and made sure all the right people were in attendance. She was the one that had bundled Marcus up in a thick coat and herded him outside, taking walks through the snow-covered gardens, snapping icicles off the roof to cool their hot chocolates. She'd had an intensely practical side that was out of character for women of their circle, and perhaps that was what he had loved most about her.

After his mother became ill, the idea of Christmas had simply ceased to be. Marcus would eat dinner at one end of a forty-two seat oak table, helping himself to gravy, roast, and potatoes from assorted silver tureens and chewing in silence. His mother took meals in her room when she could be convinced to eat at all, and usually refused company. Holidays seemed to be hardest on her. 

This year, Marcus had asked Maisey prepare a simple plate of sandwiches and ate alone, tuning into the wireless for background company. 

Though he had company of his own this year, he supposed.

Having finished her cream and salmon cakes, Ceres was sitting in his lap, purring, her tail swishing across his leg as she soaked up the heat from the fire. She'd already made herself at home in the old manor, and had dropped two dead mice on his pillow just this morning. He supposed it was the cat's idea of a Christmas gift. 

Stupid cat, he thought. The spoiled thing now wore a silver collar with a name tag and a tiny bell attached to the end. Not because he cared about the creature, he told himself, but because he wanted some warning before the fucking thing pounced on his face in the middle of the night. Fortunately, Ceres knew enough to stay clear of Flint Senior. Marcus didn't even want to imagine what would happen if his father discovered the cat.

In a year's time, he wouldn't have to come back to the manor for the holidays at all. His father could still summon him, true, but he wouldn't have to **live** there anymore. And after this year, he'd leave Hogwarts. Flunking out wasn't an option. One year, he could get away with- two, and Marcus was pretty sure his father would Kedavra him himself.

And so, Marcus sat and stared into the fire, and spent his Christmas trapped in a house that had never really been a home for what he hoped was the last time.

Ceres bumped Marcus's arm, those piercing sky-blue eyes peering up at him.

Marcus scratched her head, smiling at the way her whole body seemed to vibrate with the purr. 

Well, at least he wasn't alone.


	7. Chapter 7

**Year Five**

Marcus's mother had fallen into illness when he was very young- his memories of her whole and happy were limited at best, and restricted to a few clear and precious events. He had been raised mostly by Maisey, and even then, she had little discipline to give. Mostly, she fed him, fussed over him, and saw to his daily needs. Discipline was not in a house elf's collection of skills, and Maisey had no direction to give him, save that which had already been planted by his mother. Atticus Flint did not concern himself much with Marcus's upbringing, except to swiftly and savagely correct any perceived weakness in the young Flint's demeanor. Even when his mother was alive, he could not remember ever spending much time in the man's presence...unless forced.

After his mother died, his father strengthened connections, ran the family business, and kept a steady stream of faceless women through the manor. None of them concerned themselves with raising Marcus, either. 

While Atticus was not much in the way for hands-on parenting, there was one notable exception. When Marcus was 14 and came home for summer holiday, his father had summoned him to his bedroom. His father's summons never being the source of particularly fond memories, Marcus's stomach was in several knots by the time he reached the grand room, wondering what manner of unpleasantness awaited him.

Two figures sat before the fire in front of his bed- the hunched, hulking outline of his father...and a guest.

Salva Mireleir was a curvy sort of woman that looked older than her 36 years. She was a visitor to the Flint manor from time to time, and always left through the back entrance. 

Salva winked at Marcus as he passed her, her strong perfume filling his nose.

“Sit down, boy.” said his father.

Marcus sat, never taking his eyes off his father.

“Seems to me it's about time you started becoming a man. Since you can't seem to do it yourself, I've brought in someone to do it for you.”

“What-”

But his father had already turned from him to Salva. 

“Don't let him leave until he's learned what he needs to know,” said Atticus, tossing a handful of coins onto the table as he walked out. Salva had smiled, taken his hand, and led Marcus to his bedroom, and he had followed her, bewildered. It was only when the older woman began to disrobe that it had clicked into place.

Salva was as good as the galleons on the table- when she slipped from the room much, much later, Marcus had been well and truly educated.

Still, as he lay there, feeling his heartbeat slow, he found himself half-wishing that the experience had been with someone who wanted to be there, someone who stayed...(someone who had been _his_ choice)...

...not someone who patted his shoulder, scraped the galleons from the table, and slipped out through the back door as quietly as a ghost. The thought that she had been a frequent guest of his father previously was even more unpalatable.

For hours after, Marcus had stared at the ceiling, the sheets around his hips, staring blankly at the wall. He had wondered if this sterile trade truly was the way of the world- if he, like his mother, had been a fool to believe otherwise. 

Since then, the few women in Marcus's bed had been there mostly out of one obligation or another- fellow pure-blood witches that wanted to lay groundwork for future unions...girls that looked through him towards Flint Manor and the opportunities it offered. They were like wolves circling a herd, marking the ones with the fattest flanks. The part of Marcus that was a hormonal teenager hadn't much cared at the time.

But the other part...

Marcus had never been disillusioned about his looks. He knew he looked like his father- dark-haired, broad-shouldered , with the sort of teeth that earned him the name 'Troll Face' until he was old enough to make a fist and punch with it. The only thing he had inherited from his mother were her eyes, and, according to his father, her brains (or lack thereof). If it weren't for the Flint family fortune, Marcus knew the girls in his house would not have concerned themselves with him at all.

When the Falcons had signed him, the team manager and the public relations rep had looked him over with the same sharp, singular gaze, clipboards in hand, making notes and muttering to each other. It reminded Marcus of being at a Pureblood Christmas party.

“Those teeth'll need to be fixed,” said the PR rep as an aside, tapping her quill against her clipboard. She was a tall, shrewd-looking woman with a rather snappish demeanor. She reminded him of a bear trap in heels.

“Could be an asset,” said the manager, eying Marcus. “Rather intimidating.” 

“Not for the new image you're cultivating,” replied the rep. “Wait a few games first and see if he pans out, it'll be more than a few galleons, I can tell you.” It took everything in Marcus not to snap at her.

She tapped her quill against her lips. “And he'll need a haircut. Mohawk or fauxhawk, I'm thinking....maybe a piercing or two. Don't want to lose that edge completely.”

He might as well have not been in the room at all. 

Marcus eyed the PR rep out of the corner of his eye. If they asked him to undress, he was leaving.

At the end of the meeting, Marcus really did feel like nothing so much as a prized racehorse about to be bred. It was the same feeling he'd gotten in the Slytherin common room, time to time- the suspicion that he was being ranked and _measured_ and filed away for later use.

And Quidditch was no different. When Marcus had joined the Falcons, he was surprised by the number of women that haunted the stands and the press rooms. Called 'broom bints' by fellow teammates, they waited near the locker rooms after each game and press conference, waiting for 'autographs'. Being male and largely bored in his off time, he'd eventually taken advantage of the opportunities they presented. 

And in the moment, it was satisfactory, but afterward, it was as hollow as the first time with Salva. It wasn't him, it was what they wanted _from_ him that mattered. They were fucking a Quidditch star. They were fucking the man on the cover of Witch Weekly. They certainly weren't fucking Marcus Flint, whoever the hell that was. After the first few times, he took to exiting the locker room without a second look, going home to his bed and his cat.

His father had made no secret of his obligations- when Marcus tired of Quidditch (or when Quidditch broke enough bones), he would take over Flint Enterprises and marry a respectable pureblood witch to run the manor and see to its heirs. He would entrench himself in the right circles and give charity to the right causes. He would toe the line and ink his arm and ensure their way of life, and he'd take up residence in the family manor. It had been expected of him before he could walk, and until recently, it had seemed like an inevitability.

In the meantime, Marcus had a large flat of his own. Very few people had seen the inside of it, save for Terrence and Adrian, a few teammates, and a few witches until Marcus realized it was better to rent a room you could leave them in in the morning. Usually, the place was empty save for him and the cat. The flat was luxurious, opulent....and a complete waste of space, but it was the kind of place people would expect a Quidditch star to have.

The walls were largely undecorated, save for a few pieces of over-priced art, and the furnishings were modern and sterile-looking. Marcus knew firsthand from growing up in Flint Manor that expensive things were worthless without someone worthwhile to share them with, but the idea of having anything else was unknowable. A bird could only build the same kind of nest it was born in. An ant dug the same tunnels as its ancestors. The Flints built giant structures out of tradition and obligation and then slowly sealed themselves inside.

And so Marcus had sat quietly as the Falcon's PR rep clucked around him at the salon, cut his hair, and pierced his ear so many times it felt as if he'd used a beehive for a pillow. He got up each day in his overpriced flat and played Quidditch and posed with his teammates and fought the lingering fear that he'd temporarily broken free of his father only to build himself the exact same kind of fucking cage he'd been born in.

Marcus stood in front of the mirror, adjusting his tie. He still wasn't used to the haircut, and the three piercings they'd stuck in his left ear still stung, particularly the two in the cartilage, which were slow to heal. "The new and improved Marcus Flint"- despite all the Falcons adjustments, a younger version of his father still stared back at him. Marcus curled his lip and turned away.

Another event tonight, this time for his father. For the Flint name.

Legacy. Tradition. Obligation. 

Maybe it was like his mother had died believing- that some cages were just too big to be free of.  
…..  
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..  
.

Katie looked into the mirror, turning back and forth and back again. Normally a pretty but rather plain girl stared back at her- but not tonight. Katie grinned at her reflection, and the reflection grinned back.

Her mother had outdone herself with the dress, which had arrived by owl post last week. It was as red as a phoenix feather, and it floated like one when she moved. The bodice was shirred with stays that virtually melted into the fabric, and the skirt was made from layered organza that fell in different lengths against her thighs. It was a testament to her mother's skill as a seamstress that she'd been able to craft such a dress without a single fitting, and it was without a doubt the single most beautiful thing Katie had ever worn. Katie's initial joy at having had her mother make something for her was tempered later by the very real possibility that Morganna Bell simply hadn't trusted her daughter to dress herself properly.

Since her father's death, the Bells, who had formerly lived quite comfortably, found themselves suddenly very strapped for money. The small amount Jack Bell's insurance had paid upon his death went to fill in the very huge gap created by his medical bills, as well as the funeral expenses. And though both her brothers and Jack's parents would have happily given their mother any amount of money she needed, Morganna Bell flat out refused, and any offers were met with less-than-subtle hostility. Pride was one of the few things she carried from her old life, but it ran deep.

As a result, Katie and her mother were forced to reduce their expenses where they could. They were not as poor as, say, the Weasleys, but they were not far behind. For Morganna, it meant letting go the housekeeper they'd had since Katie was in nappies, selling her father's motorcycle, and canceling her spa membership at Cauldron. For Katie, it meant a reduction in her wardrobe and getting most of her textbooks secondhand. Most of the time at Hogwarts Katie wore her school robes, but she did what she could for regular clothing, patching up torn denims, re-purposing old jumpers of her brothers and wearing her trainers down to the soles. Not being one particularly concerned with fashion, it had seemed a small sacrifice, and Kiran had always taken it upon himself to supplement her wardrobe whenever possible, sending her beautiful robes from France and Italy when he traveled. Katie acquired most of her muggle wardrobe from thrift stores.

But not tonight. This dress was not second-hand- it was tailor-made to fit her. Guiltily, Katie wondered if they could afford it, then tossed the thought aside. Just for once, she wanted to enjoy herself without the guilt of wondering what it cost.

Katie touched the charm at her neck, closing her eyes for a moment. She wished her father could see her now- he would hardly recognize her. 

Katie had her friends to thank for the other half of the transformation. Alicia had applied gobfuls of Sleakeasy's Hairpotion and had wrapped Katie's hair in an ornate tangle of curls at the nape of her neck. Angelina had lent her a pair of gold earrings that shimmered and swayed like the dress's full skirt, and the shoes were Angelina's as well. 

When Alicia told her she looked beautiful, even Katie had to secretly agree. She felt it, anyway, which she supposed was most of the battle. 

“Kate- c'mon, we'll be late!”

Katie took one last look at the stranger in the mirror before hurrying out of the room, patting Sophie before she left.

The dinner was wonderful, and her date, Abram Kabinov, was also an enthusiastic follower of Quidditch, though of course he preferred to talk about the Bulgarian team. She'd met him during the tournament, and was happy to accept when he'd asked her to go as friends.

After dinner, they'd danced quite a bit, and Katie chatted happily for a time with Hermione, who'd come with Victor Krum of all people. 

Katie broke away after a particularly vigorous song by the Weird Sisters to grab some drinks, fanning herself from the heat. Fred and George passed her on the way, each giving her a wink. Katie frowned after them, then decided that whatever it was, she'd probably find out sooner than later. She, Alicia, and Angelina had long ago adopted Lee's 'don't ask' policy where the twins were concerned.

Katie was ladling punch into a crystal cup when someone else joined her. Katie moved over to make room, but she could feel the person staring down at her all the same. Scowling and wondering why the person didn't simply move to the side, Katie glanced up out of the corner of her eye. Someone tall, and broad-shouldered, and-

She nearly dropped her glass. “Marcus?”

He grinned at her. There was something different about him, but she couldn't place it immediately. 

“Why on earth are **you** here?” she blurted. “Didn't you graduate?”

“Why, hello to you too, Bell. My father's a generous patron of the school, so in the off season, I'm required to put in appearances.” 

“How perfectly tiresome for you.” she said dryly.

“Flint Industries has donated some security trolls for the Triwizard Tournament. Besides, it has its advantages,” replied Marcus, thinking of seeing her in the dress. He almost hadn't recognized her from behind.

Katie took a sip of the punch, wincing as it burned a little on the way down. She looked at her glass, then sniffed it. Someone had spiked it- that someone most likely being **two** someones. Katie looked around for Fred and George, who were conspicuously absent. 

Definitely spiked. 

She turned back to Marcus. Sod it. She took another drink. “And what advantages are those, all the underage witches you can shag?” 

Marcus rolled his eyes. “Nice, Bell. Where's your date?”

“He's not a 'date',” said Katie, wondering why she felt the need to clarify that point of information. “He's a friend.”

“Right. Does **he** know that?” asked Marcus.

It was Katie's turn to roll her eyes. “Of course he does.” 

“Then he won't have a problem with you dancing with me, will he?” asked Marcus, setting down her drink, grabbing her wrist, and leading her towards the dance floor. 

“Wait, what- look, you can't just drag someone out on the dance floor-” said Katie indignantly, her high-heeled shoes making it impossible for her to dig in. Instead, she skated along the floor until they were in the middle of the crowd. 

Marcus made a show of looking around. “Well here I am. And there you are. So apparently I can.”

“Arse,” muttered Katie. 

Marcus grinned and twirled her. Katie took a moment to look down at his feet as he easily led her in the slow waltz.

Katie raised her eyebrows. 'What do you know? Marcus Flint can dance."

"Surprised?"

"A little. Dancing doesn't really seem to go with your whole brooding, menacing repertoire."

Marcus shrugged. "It's a wizarding society requirement. My mother taught me."

Katie tried, for a moment, to imagine a young Marcus Flint being led around by his mother, concentrating at his footwork, when he interrupted her thoughts.

“So, you enjoying yourself?”

“Well, I _was_ ,” said Katie petulantly. 

“It's that bad, dancing with an old schoolmate? I thought the Tri-Wizard tournament was about encouraging cooperation in the magical community.”

“And you actually believe that?” snorted Katie.

“Not at all,” replied Marcus, and twirled her. Katie's non-date, Abram Kavinov, was glaring at Marcus from across the punch bowl. Marcus winked at him, deepening the foreign wizard's already impressive frown. 

“Your date is glaring at me.”

“For the last time, he isn't my date. And he isn't glaring at you- he's just got big eyebrows, that's all.”

Marcus turned them around so fast Katie almost lost a shoe. 

“Congratulations on making the Falcons, by the way,” said Katie begrudgingly. “What'd you have to do at tryouts? Behead an opponent? Steal from an orphan?”

“No, but they do look for that in the first few games,” replied Marcus seriously, which had Katie fighting a smile.

“They had your match against Puddlemere on the wireless,” said Katie. “Four goals, not bad.”

He grinned down at her. “Well Katie Bell, I didn't know you were a fan. I'll have to send you some tickets.”

Katie raised her eyebrows. “Oh, so you _can_ write. I assumed you'd forgotten how.”

 _She'd expected him to write to her? About what, exactly? Games he'd played? Witches he'd shagged? His big empty overpriced flat?_

Marcus frowned. “I suppose I could be bothered. Let you see how real Quidditch is played.”

“Don't bother, unless it's against a decent team,” retorted Katie.

“Ouch! The kitten has claws,” said Marcus, spinning her, but he grinned. 

Reluctantly, Katie smiled, too. “Speaking of which, how's yours?”

“Fucking thing's taken over my apartment.”

"You didn't eat her?"

"Thinking about it. Thing's a pain in the ass."

The Weird Sisters ended their slow song and began a fast one, and a few enthusiastic dancers mashed them together as they tried to move off the floor. To Marcus's great surprise, Katie willingly took his offered arm and allowed herself to be escorted off the dance floor. 

Grabbing some more punch, they walked outside, where snow was beginning to fall. Katie talked happily about next year's Quidditch team, and asked him questions about the Falcons, most of which related to the number and nature of penalties that they tallied each game. It was refreshing, talking to Katie- she did not act stupid or giggle or try to flatter him like the Quidditch groupies. She did not try to patronize him like some of the pureblood witches in his house, and she was not afraid of him like some (most) of his old classmates. She talked to him like a normal fucking human being. 

Marcus had forgotten how refreshing that could be.

They walked along the snow-covered paths, ducking under awnings and skirting bushes, some of which swarmed with giggles and hushed voices. Katie's cheeks colored a little when they ran into a couple so firmly entwined it was difficult to tell where one ended and the other began, and Marcus had to grin at her embarrassment.

Finally, they rounded a corner of the castle. Thick tufts of snow had piled on the trees and carriages, twinkling in the light of the moon. Even Marcus, who was usually somewhat oblivious to his surroundings, had to admit it was rather nice.

Katie's breath clouded the air, and snowflakes sparkled in her hair as she wrapped her arms around herself. 

“You want to go in?” he asked her.

“No, it's pretty,” she replied. “Just a little cold.”

Marcus shrugged off his dress jacket and draped it around her, and she smiled up at him, her breath crystallizing into small clouds in the cold air.

He quickly stepped back.

Katie leaned back against one of the stone pillars, watching the snow fall and tightening his jacket around her. “It's a beautiful night. We spend so much of our days just trudging through the snow, carving paths to class. I'd forgotten how pretty it could be.” 

Marcus stared down at her, wondering when the hell little Katie Bell had grown up. At Hogwarts, she'd been as gangly as a young fawn, all freckles and elbows and a mouth that never stopped running. He'd always remembered her as one of the few bright spots the school had held for him, besides Quidditch; someone to talk to about games, someone to share glances with in the hallway- someone who didn't flinch at his teeth or his name- someone that wasn't afraid to call him on his bullshit. Someone that, despite his best efforts, could actually make him laugh. 

He had remembered the girl she was, and had been looking forward to seeing her. Not this young woman in a red, floaty dress, his coat draped across her shoulders, her neck long and graceful as she blinked up at the falling snow. No sloppy ponytail, no Quidditch robes, just a head full of sleek and shiny curls and a pair of heels that brought her past his shoulders. 

Same light smattering of freckles, same voice, same smile, but this strange new Katie had him off-balance. He'd been standing behind her at the punch bowl, looking forward to her look of surprise, and she'd turned around and he was the one that was caught off guard.

“You're awfully quiet.” she said. She was looking at him, now, and he realized he must have been standing there like an idiot for some time. “What are you thinking about?”

 _You don't want to know,_ he thought.

“Nothing.” he replied quickly.

Katie was looking down at her empty cup, watching the snowflakes gather in the bottom. “So, Marcus, you've put in your appearance. What next? Why aren't you out with your fellow Quidditch stars, knee-deep in adoring fans?”

That was a good question. His fellow Chaser Doxen was throwing a huge bash at his flat tonight, and the place would be swarming with fellow players, food, alcohol (that wasn't poorly-spiked punch) and Quidditch floozies dying to see the inside of a Quidditch star's bedroom. And yet, when Atticus had owled him regarding putting in an appearance at the Yule Ball and refreshing some old alliances, Marcus had found himself agreeable for several reasons, not the least of which was seeing an underage half-blood Gryffindor who half-hated his guts half of the time.

Which was...really fucking pathetic.

Wasn't it?

_Wasn't it?_

Marcus's hands balled at his sides. What the fuck **was** he doing here, exactly?

“Hello?” Katie was waving her hand in front of his face, laughing. “Earth to Marcus, are you-”

And then Marcus Flint did the stupidest thing he could think of. 

He kissed Katie Bell. 

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	8. Chapter 8

**Year Six**  
Diagon Alley had changed, and not for the better. The street's usual brightness and exuberance seemed to have vanished overnight, leaving a hushed, empty shell in its place.

People talked in subdued voices and hurried whispers- children stuck close to their parents instead of racing up and down the street, peering in store windows and begging for candy. Few people talked on the streets. A few nodded to him. A few did not meet his eyes, but ducked their heads and hurried along. 

Their little world was being carved in half, slowly but surely.

Olivander's was boarded up, and all the windows in Florean Fortesque's Ice Cream Parlour had been smashed. A dark mark had been etched above the doorway, meaning the man was probably as good as dead. Marcus remembered eating chocolate ice creams with extra nuts on the patio chairs, listening to the man spout odd facts about Wizarding history. Gone, now.

Marcus pulled up the lapels of his black traveling cloak and crossed the street. 

Marcus stopped off at Quality Quidditch Supplies for a bottle of Fleetwood's High Finish Handle Polish and ate a quiet lunch at the Leaky Cauldon before stopping at his final destination, Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. The Falcons had ordered all new robes for the upcoming season, and as Madam Malkin was a friend of the Captain's mother, she would be taking and filling the rather large order.

Sometimes it was hard to believe that Quidditch continued at a time like this. Most of the time, Marcus was grateful for the distraction, but it seemed....out of place, in the sort of world where a man who served ice cream to children could disappear.

Marcus glanced behind him, but the street was empty now, as hollow and silent as a bone.

Pushing open the door, Marcus met the last person in the world he expected to meet.

At 17, Katie was now as tall as Angelina, and though she maintained the same slim figure she'd had at 11, she now had a small groove in her hips and the writing on her t-shirts was beginning to strain. Her hair was still woven in a long, thick plait that she more often than not swung over one shoulder to keep it out of the way, as she was now, but something else about her was changing...had changed. The way she carried herself was different- less careless, more deliberate. It was the kind of subtle change that was difficult to describe, but was immediately detectable. He had detected a bit of it at the Yule Ball...before he lost his head completely.

Today, she was wearing a thick grey jumper that zipped in the front and a ratty old t-shirt that said “The Beatles” across the chest. Whatever those were. A group of animagi? Marcus had learned long ago that Muggles had very strange names for things that didn't always match up with what you thought they were going to.

Katie didn't look up as the bell on the door rang, but kneeled down to place a bolt of fabric on a lower shelf. “Welcome to Madame Malkin's, how can I help you?” she called.

“Didn't figure you for a seamstress, Bell.”

The loud thump accompanied by a muffled curse told him she'd knocked her head against the shelf in surprise. Katie appeared a moment later, rubbing her head and giving him a glare any basilisk would be envious of.

“I'm not a seamstress. I keep the appointment books and take the measurements.”

Marcus could not imagine a more boring summer job, and told her so. 

Katie shrugged. “We can't all be Quidditch stars with big fat trust funds, now, can we? Anyway, how can I help you?”

“I'm here for the fitting.”

She blinked at him for a moment, looking for all the world as if a personal nightmare of hers was coming true. “Right. 'Course you are. Madame Maxine will be back in a few moments, she can take your-”

Marcus folded his arms, grinning at her. “I thought you took the measurements.”

She glanced away. “Well, I do, usually, when Maxine isn't in the shoppe-”

“Well, I don't see her. Do you?” asked Marcus, pretending to look around. 

Katie grit her teeth. “Please step onto the podium. And you'll have to remove that jacket.”

Marcus stepped up and tossed his jacket onto a nearby chair.

“Lose the jumper, too,” she muttered.

Underneath the grey jumper, Marcus wore a simple black vest, which rode up his torso as he peeled the outer garment off. Kate looked pointedly away.

“Arms up, please, and stand up straight.” Obligingly, Marcus spread his arms out. 

Katie took a moment to glance up at him and noted two things; one, the difference in their heights was even more pronounced, now, and Witch Weekly had not exaggerated Marcus's physique in the slightest in its latest coverage of 'Newest Quidditch Hunks', an article Alicia took great pleasure in reading aloud, as it covered both Flint, Oliver Wood, and Argon Ansford, an old classmate of her brothers. Both Alicia and Angelina had been forced to admit, begrudgingly, that Flint had filled out nicely- Katie had refused to admit anything of the sort and had tossed the rag into the common room fire.

Clearing her throat, Katie walked around the counter and took out her wand from a belt at her hip. She also grabbed a clipboard.

With a flick of her wand, a strip of measuring tape ribboned up to wrap around his arm. Tightly.

“Your teammate Blake was already here this morning,” said Katie, scribbling something down on the clipboard. She was apparently determined not to look at him. “He mentioned you might be looking into some underclothes for rainy conditions.”

She measured his wrists, her eyes flickering along his forearm. He followed her gaze.

“Looking for something?” he sneered. 

“Should I be?” she countered.

“Disappointed I haven't joined the club? Surprised?”

“Just doing the measurements you requested, Mr. Flint,” replied Katie coolly. 

Their eyes met for a moment, then Katie abruptly turned and walked away. 

And then Marcus understood- she was pissed at him. It explained the returned Quidditch tickets he'd sent her- the envelope had a 'return to sender' note on it, with 'sender is a great prat' written below it in ink. And it all had to do with the Yule Ball, didn't it? 

He'd had one-night stands with less fucking fanfare, but of course with Bell it had to mean everything. She couldn't just forget about it and make his life easier.

But if he was being honest, he remembered it too. Had remembered it more than once, in fact, alone in his flat at night, his hand slipping beneath the sheets, wrapping around himself... 

_Her icy little hands inside his cloak, fingertips lightly resting against his abdomen, her lips as soft as flower petals as he twisted his fingers in her hair, opening his mouth against hers and tasting the punch on her mouth. She'd tilted her head back obligingly and let him lead until, suddenly, she was kissing him back, and then his momentum had flipped completely._

_Her hands had fisted in his robes to pull him down, pull him closer, her teeth on his lips, body flush against his, and he had to keep telling himself that she was sixteen fucking years old, and a Gryffindor, and practically still a child, even if she didn't kiss like it-_

_He pinned her against the wall, desperate for some contact, desperate to-_

-and she was talking. Whoops.

“-the Ireland games. Blake said the weather-proof stuff could be billed to the team account.”

“What do you recommend?” asked Marcus, blinking away the memory and craning his head to look at her. The tape wrapped around his waist, then the inside of his thigh. Marcus forced himself to face forward. He could hear Katie's quill scratching in the background.

_-sliding his hand up her thigh, inch by inch, his fingers digging into that soft skin, and she gasped against his mouth, and this was too fast, too fast-_

_-not bloody fast enough-_

She was still talking. “Ernalad's Ever-Dry Underarmor has been pretty popular. Keeps out rain, sleet, most kinds of minor hexes-”

“How long does the charm last?” he interrupted, trying to get his thoughts (and his reaction to said thoughts) under control.

“Six to eight months, give or take. Should last you the season, and you can get it re-charmed by post.” Katie ripped off a sheet of paper from her clipboard and slapped it into his hand. “This is your receipt. The robes will be delivered to the Falcon's office before the start of the season. Shall I order the underarmor?”

“Fine.”

“Fine,” said Katie, ripping off another sheet of paper and handing it to him. “I'll bill that to team's account as well, shall I? This is your receipt. If that's all-”

“You're angry.” said Marcus, taking the receipt.

Katie shrugged, walking back around the counter. “Why would I be?”

“Good question. What is it, because I kissed you and didn't fucking marry you?” he asked her.

“No, it's because you're the world's biggest fucking arse in general,” she snapped. “But since we're on the subject, why _did_ you do it?”

Marcus shrugged into his cloak, not looking at her .“Because I could.”

“Try again.” she snapped.

Marcus turned back to face her, glaring. “Look, why don't you make up whatever childish bullshit you want for an answer, and we'll call it canon?”

Katie's cheeks colored. “Like I said, you're a bloody arse.”

He shrugged. “Which makes you what, for kissing me back?”

“Why don't you make up whatever answer _you_ want, and we'll call it even?” she said, throwing his earlier words back at him.

Marcus threw up his arms and stalked towards the door. “You're mental.”

“Better that than a coward,” muttered Katie, tossing the clipboard onto the counter.

Marcus's fists clenched at his sides. 

_Coward. Words his father had spit at him many times._

_Worse when she said them._

Marcus stalked back to the counter, leaning across it into her space.

To her credit, Katie did not flinch, just narrowed her eyes at him. 

She should be afraid of him. She should be terrified. Of him, of the world outside this door...

And yet...

“What, Bell, you think I'm afraid of _you_? Because that's a fucking laugh.”

She set her jaw and looked up to face him. “You tell me, you're the one running out the door.”

Marcus looked behind him. “That's right, I'm exiting the building. That's what happens when business is concluded.”

“And is that what happened after the Yule Ball? Was our business 'concluded'?” taunted Katie. “That why you ran off, then?”

“Trust me, you wouldn't have liked it if I'd 'concluded' our business,” said Marcus. 

She lifted her chin. “I'm not a bloody child.”

“Pretty damned near.”

She leaned towards him now, her palms flat on the counter, and he was definitely NOT looking at her tits- 

“Right. Then why'd you kiss me?” she challenged.

_To shut you up._

_To stop me saying something stupid._

_Because you went and grew up on me, and I wasn't prepared for that._

_Because you were standing in the snow, in that dress, and I couldn't **not** kiss you-_

They stared at one another for a moment before Marcus looked away. “I don't know,” he said seriously. 

Instead of yelling at him, Katie took a step back and sighed. Which told him it wasn't the right answer, but it wasn't exactly the wrong one, either.

“Well, can't argue with that one, can I?”

More silence.

“Are we...” Katie paused. “Are we friends, Marcus?”

Marcus walked to the door, hesitating at the handle. 

“Just be careful, Katie.”

She narrowed her eyes at that. “I'm not afraid.”

_You really should be,_ thought Marcus, remembering Olivanders and Fortesque's. _You really, really should be._

“Yeah, well...be careful anyway, all right?”

“Yeah...you too.” Something changed in her expression, something nearly invisible, but Marcus knew what Katie's walls looked like, and at moment, one of them was crumbling.

This time, when Marcus sent her tickets to the game, she didn't send them back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to you all for reading, and for leaving kudos! Thanks go especially to Eep and OphyBoing, who were kind enough to review! Reviews are even better than candy! (And I love candy....)


	9. Chapter 9

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“Where'd you get these tickets again?” shouted Mox over the crowd, holding up his Omniculars. To his right, Kiran glanced behind him, hanging onto his crisps for dear life as he was jostled in the enthusiastic throng of people. Katie supposed she shouldn't have been surprised that the Falcons fans were rowdier than most.

“Won them!” lied Katie, picking up her own Omniculars and scanning the pitch. 

“Nice seats!” shouted Mason, giving Katie a thumbs-up. And they were- center, just below the top box. Seats any proper Quidditch fan would kill for.

Mason's date, Kel-something, was typical of his usual taste in women; big-breasted and generally affable, but utterly dull and terribly dimwitted. She was currently frowning down at her program, turning it sideways. After finding out she didn't even follow Quidditch, Katie regretted wasting a ticket on her. Still, their mother had not been an option, and she couldn't take Angelina or Alicia without leaving one out...and besides, they would want to know where she got the tickets, and were unlikely to believe she'd won them. Katie had long ago given up her mother as a lost cause where Quidditch was concerned. Witch though she was, Morganna Bell had never been a fan of the game, and had never understood her sons', and later, her daughter's, obsession with it. In fact, Katie still wasn't entirely sure her mother actually knew what a quaffle was.

Since Katie had received four tickets in addition to her own, she'd taken her brothers and their significant others in repayment for all the games they'd treated her to as a child. The afternoon had been fun- they'd popped off to a little pub Kiran had heard about for lunch before heading to the Falcon's Stadium. Still, Katie couldn't help but wish her father had been there- he always loved the enchanted noisemakers and the programs with the moving pictures. The year before he'd died, they'd all gone to a Harpies match together, and her father had worn a ridiculous feathered hat and cheered as loudly as any other fan.

In spite of being a muggle, Jack Bell had loved Quidditch- he'd come to every one of Katie's Jr. League matches, and helped her practice nearly every day during the summer before work, just as he had done with her brothers. Katie would never forget her father racing up and down the pitch after her, throwing her quaffle after quaffle, narrating imaginary games. Said it reminded him of the glory of his old rugby days, and he lost fewer teeth doing it.

Running around the yard before supper, Jack Bell hefting his daughter onto his broad shoulders and galloping across the lawn-

_“And it's Katie! Katie Bell with the winning goal! The crowd lifts her onto their shoulders and carries her away-”_

Katie smiled at the memory. 

Her father had always understood about Quidditch. Perhaps it was because he had been a rugby man himself.

_“And when you make the big leagues, Kathryn, I'll be sitting front row, center! You'll be saving me a seat, won't you?”_

Mox nudged her. “Earth to Katie! It's starting.”

The announcer pointed his wand at his throat, and suddenly, the noise of the stadium dimmed to a dull roar. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, witches and wizards, I give you, tonight's challengers, the Tutshill Tornados! Captain Merwin Finwick-”

One by one, the Tornadoes shot onto the field amidst a few cheers and mostly boos. This was, after all, the Falcon's home pitch.

“This'll be a good match!” shouted Mason, cheering. “The Tornados are undefeated so far this season!”

Katie nodded, adjusting her Omniculars to zoom in.

“-and Brevis Birch! And now, your very own Falmouth Falcons! Captain Blake Doxen, Tess Foxana, Marcus Flint-”

And there he was, dark grey robes rippling behind him as he shot across the pitch, coming to a halt alongside his teammates. 

Katie slowed down the motion, zooming in- he had a Firebolt, the lucky bastard. Of _course_ he had a Firebolt. Harry had generously allowed all of the Gryffindor Quidditch a turn on his Firebolt, and the broom had been amazing. Flint's model looked to be the newest- the Firebolt 5, Limited Edition, built in jinx repellant, gold filigreed handle, nought to one-fifty in ten seconds flat.

Looking up, admiring the broom, Katie felt her stomach sink a little.

There had always been a gap between them. Rival houses, to say nothing of their very different personalities, had always ensured a certain natural distance, but Katie had mostly ignored it as stupid inner-house politics that had nothing to do with reality. But at that moment, staring up at Marcus Flint, professional Quidditch player, Slytherin and silver-spoon-fed Pureblood, Katie felt the gap between them acutely. There was a reality to their distance beyond serpents and lions- there were very real, very deep differences between them, and she had been a fool to ignore them.

Suddenly, Marcus's grey eyes snapped to hers. Katie jolted and nearly fumbled her Omniculars.

_How in the hell did he know where she was?_

_Because he gave you the tickets, dummy._

Well, she was staring at his broom, that was all. She wasn't imagining him without his uniform off. 

Wasn't remembering how he kissed, aggressive, relentless, like the way he went after the quaffle. Wasn't remembering the shiver that had bolted down her spine when he came striding into Madam Malkin's-

-and that was just it, wasn't it, thought Katie, remembering their last conversation. They weren't a couple. They were a series of awkward events. They weren't even really friends, when you got down to it. A friend would write to her. A friend wouldn't let long stretches of time go without speaking. A friend wouldn't keep running away.

What **was** she doing here, really?

“Oi! Katie! The match's started!” Mason's hand clapped down on her shoulder, scaring her half to death.

This time, she really did drop the Omniculars...right on her bloody foot.

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After a match, the Falcons locker room was pure chaos. Showers running, soiled Quidditch robes in sweaty puddles on the floor, and shouting and laughter echoing through the relatively small room. Jamison Dirk, the Falcon's manager, was usually looking thoroughly harassed by this point, and sometimes gave up on trying to keep the press out and let them filter in at their own risk. The players themselves had long ago abandoned any sense of modesty, and more than once, Marcus had snapped out post-match commentary while under the showers.

Sooner or later, however, the press and the team staff cleared out, and the players were left to dress. Usually, after a win the team went out to a pub to let off steam- after a loss, they usually all slunk home and turned in after a blistering lecture from the manager, or Doxen, or both.

Tonight had been a narrow win against the Tornados, and the team's energy was up. The team's beaters, Orlik Seychelles and Nolis Zabonski, were singing in the showers, and the Keeper, Saker, was trying to drown them out by singing “God Save the Queen”...poorly.

“Where we going tonight?” asked Tess Foxana, pulling a plain purple vest over her head. Though she was the only girl on the team and would have had had an entire locker room all to herself, Foxana had no trouble showering with the rest of them, and apparently had no problem with any of them trying (and failing) not to ogle her tits. The fact that she had not even the vaguest interest in any of them did help somewhat in viewing her as 'one of the guys'-

...though she did have nice tits, Marcus reflected, trying to stare at the wall behind her.

Foxana ruffled a towel over her hair. “I know! Let's try the Lion's Den, that's a good one for drinks.”

Doxen shrugged. “Sounds good to me. You in, Flint?”

“Yeah, why not.”

“Oi! Orlik! Zabonski! Saker! Hurry your arses up!” shouted Tess, now working on lacing her boots. “Meet you lot outside.”

Marcus pulled a clean shirt on and shook his head, shaking off some of the water from the shower. Though he would have rather fallen into his bed, he had to admit that a night out with the Falcon's was never dull. 

Tess was back. “Oi Flint, someone's asked to see you out there!”

“If it's the press, tell them to fuck off. I've already given my statement.” said Marcus, tossing his uniform into the laundry bin and pulling a clean pair of slacks out of his locker.

“Hmmm,” Tess was grinning like the cat that got the canary. Two canaries, given the wattage of the smirk. 

Never a good sign.

“Don't think it's the press, unless the press's about 17 and sporting freckles. Didn't know you liked 'em young, Flint. She's cute, though. Real cute.”

Marcus replied with a single finger. 

Tess laughed, folding her arms. “She off the market, then, or can I have a go?”

“Piss off, Foxana,” replied Marcus as he passed her, knowing he'd hear about this one for awhile.

Sure enough, Katie Bell was waiting just outside the locker rooms, holding her program to her chest and glancing around her, flanked by security wizards and looking a little uncertain for once, which for some crazy reason made him want to reach out and take her arm. 

She was staring up at the pitch, her mouth slightly agape. Out of the bleachers and on the ground, the pitch seemed even more impressive- Marcus knew from experience.

“Looking for an autograph, Gryffindor?” he asked, folding his arms as he leaned up against the side of the entry.

Katie jumped, nearly dropping her program. Her plait swung as she whirled around, still clutching the press pass he'd sent her. “Marcus! I just wanted to thank you for the tickets. It was a really good game.”

Three other men walked up that moment, and Marcus suddenly found himself under the scrutiny of Katie's two older brothers and a third man he didn't recognize. Looking at them as a whole group, it was easy to see that Katie looked nothing like her brothers. Where the Bell brothers were tall with cool blue eyes and dark features like their mother, Katie obviously favored her father, with her hazel eyes and smattering of freckles. The slightly shorter of the two brothers stepped forward first, grinning.

“Marcus Flint. I remember you from Hogwarts. You were that bloke that tried out the Blotzkrudge move against Hufflepuff's keeper, yeah? I'm Mason, Katie's brother.”

“Yeah, nearly busted my skull doing it,” replied Marcus, shaking the offered hand. “Harvey was about the size of a bridge troll. Nearly blocked all three hoops just hovering.”

Mason laughed. “True enough.”

The unknown man seemed friendly as he reached out and shook Marcus's hand. “I'm Kiran. Always nice to meet a 'school friend' of Katie's.” 

There was a knowing glint in the wizard's eyes that Marcus wasn't sure he liked.

Marcus recognized Katie's oldest brother from her description of him, and from his own limited acquaintance from Hogwarts. Mox Bell's gaze was more shrewd than Mason or Kiran's, and much less friendly. 

“Where's your date gone to?” he asked Mason, his eyes never leaving Marcus's.

“Probably lost on the way to the loo,” muttered Kiran.

“Oh, crap. I'll go find her,” said Mason. “Nice to see you again, Marcus.”

“Didn't you want something from the stands?” Mox asked Katie next. 

“Oh, are they taking the stands down already? I wanted to get Angelina and Alicia those programs before we left.” Katie glanced behind her. “Back in a second!”

“I'll come too,” said Kiran, glancing at Mox.

Mox remained behind with Marcus, which apparently had been his plan the whole time. Unlike Mason and Kiran, he did not extend his hand. 

“I remember you too, Marcus,” said Mox coolly, folding his arms. 'You were the one that nearly broke my little sister's jaw her first game of Quidditch, weren't you?” 

Marcus recognized the look he was receiving- it was the kind a hippogriff gave you while waiting for you to remember your manners. 

Marcus folded his arms and met Mox's gaze head on. Damned if he'd bow down first. 

“Yeah, well, that was Quidditch. Katie can handle herself, if you've noticed.” 

“In Quidditch, yeah, but I think we both know Katie's got a pretty wide blind spot when it comes to people,” said Mox. “With all due respect, you ever hurt my sister again, on the pitch or off, I know a lot of creatures that won't leave you for bones once I've finished with you.”

“And with all due respect, you don't know fuckall about me, Bell.”

“I know enough,” replied Mox in a low voice. “The hell are you playing at with her, anyway?”

“Look what we found!” called Kiran cheerfully. And loudly. Katie was clutching two new programs, as well as a bag brimming with other figures and team rosters. The happy look on her face dimmed somewhat as she took in the tense scene in front of her. 

Kiran's gaze shifted between Marcus and Mox and he sighed. “Well, it was nice to meet you, Marcus. Perhaps we'll see you again soon!” Taking the eldest Bell by the arm, Kiran all but dragged Mox towards the stands. 

Katie's eldest brother glanced over his shoulder as he was led away. The look on the man's face was clear enough- “Stay the fuck away from my little sister.” 

And while Marcus could appreciate the sentiment, he had no intention at all of honoring it.

Katie glanced behind her at her retreating family. “Well, I suppose I should be off as well. I just wanted to thank you for the tickets- and, well, that was a great pass you had from Foxanna, and then that second goal, too, I thought for sure he'd block it, but then you went right and faked him out, it was really -” Katie's eyes were still bright from the excitement of the match, a little breathless as she got caught up in the retelling, and Marcus could relate. He wanted to tell her about the new broom, about the new sideways momentum you could use to skirt your opponents away if you accelerated at a slant to 110, and-

And he realized he'd missed talking to her, he realized- missed their conversations about Quidditch, their arguments about favorite players, best moves, greatest games- 

He'd missed talking to her, period.

Katie understood about Quidditch. It wasn't just a game- it was chaos and speed and air and adrenaline, where the only limits you had were the ones you allowed yourself. It was one of the things he lo-

“-and that Firebolt, the acceleration is incredible, much better than the Nimbus...and I'm rambling on, keeping you, aren't I?” Katie flushed. “Sorry. Thanks again for the tickets,” she said, and on some impulse she couldn't even begin to trace the origin of, she stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. 

Marcus stiffened at the contact.

It was a friendly gesture, a simple show of affection, and yet that small touch was like being struck by lightning. 

Though he would have liked to deny it out of professionalism if nothing else, he'd found his gaze wandering to Katie's section during the penalty breaks- laughing, her arm around Mox's shoulder, leaning against Mason and looking at the program, or hooking her arm in Kiran's as they made their way up the stands for refreshments. Katie was a naturally affectionate person, obviously nurtured by an equally affectionate family that was comfortable being close. Marcus's family, even when it was more or less complete, was not an affectionate family...with very few exceptions. 

Exceptions that had been gone a very, very long time.

Marcus knew there were no ulterior motives in Katie's simple gesture- she was happy, and she was thanking him for the experience. It was a natural extension of her feelings, meant to thank him, not to cause discomfort.

And yet, the feelings that churned in Marcus were anything but simple. Desire, yes, but confusion, disgust (at himself, at his reaction), and fear, too, fear of what his reaction meant. 

After all, if she could do this with a simple touch, how easy would it be for her to destroy him completely with anything else?

Seeming to sense his discomfort, Katie quickly stepped back.

“Oi, Marcus! You coming?” It was Foxana and the rest of the group, grinning, and Marcus knew the mickey would be vigorously taken later...probably forever.

Looking back at Katie, he was surprised to find confusion in her face as well. “Well...see you, Marcus.”

“Yeah. See you, Katie.”  
…..  
….  
…  
..  
. 

 

The Gryffindor girls had a long-standing tradition. Friday nights after Quidditch practice, they'd gather in the dormitory, armed with butterbeer, various candies (usually courtesy of Fred and George's somewhat illegal imports), and the latest trashy magazines, wherein they would attempt to solve the world's problems.

Or at least some of their own.

Two boxes of chocolate frogs, a bag of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, and a half case of butterbeer later, Katie, Alicia, and Angelina law sprawled out on Angelina's bed, surrounded by empty wrappers and discarded bottles. 

Angelina lay on her back, arms splayed out above her head. “Hmmm...Terence Higgs?”

Alicia considered. “Shagable,” she decided, shoving an entire wriggling chocolate frog into her mouth.

“You utter slag!” laughed Angelina, sitting up and throwing a handful of fizzing whizbees at her friend.

“This from the girl who labeled Adrian Pucey as the best thing to happen to a Quidditch uniform!” laughed Alicia. “Right, then...hmmm...Oliver Wood. Hexable, shagable, or hitchable?”

“I'm going to have to go with shagable, in theory,” said Angelina. “Ignoring the fact that he's like an older brother.”

“Not hitchable?” asked Katie.

“Is no one in this game hitchable?” asked Alicia, frowning. “We'll be old maids.”

“Well-shagged old maids, anyway.” Katie popped a Bertie Bott's bean into her mouth, made a face, then quickly spit it out into her hand. Earthworm. 

“Well, Oliver's already married to Quidditch,” said Angelina. “It would be a strange sort of threesome.”

“That is true,” agreed Katie, thinking of the foul mood and deep depressions that had usually accompanied most of their early matches. “All right, Alicia...Fred Weasley.”

Alicia swallowed around her frog. “Evidently quite shagable. Just ask Ang here.”

Angelina grinned. “What can I say, ladies? Must've been the butterbeer.”

“Where-?” started Katie.

“After last practice. Astronomy tower. Had it all set up. Butterbeer, candles, cushioning charms on the observation deck. Very sweet.”

“But how'd-”

“Silencing charm,” said Anglina, anticipating the question. “It was like the Yule Ball, all over again- said he wanted to do something sweet for our anniversary.”

Katie smiled and shook her head. The Yule Ball had ended well enough for some, at least. Alicia had hooked up with a Durmstrang boy that spoke very little English. This was fine with Alicia, as she'd said it wasn't his conversation she'd been after anyway.

Katie's own night had ended rather anti-climatically by comparison. After Marcus had inexplicably pulled away and stormed off, muttering what might have been an apology, Katie had stayed outside until her fingers tingled, watching the snow fall and trying to reconcile what had just happened. Not wanting to be rude, she'd eventually sought out her date and spent the rest of the night dancing with him, trading Quidditch stories and injuries, and allowing him an awkward kiss goodnight, although the chaste, hopeful kiss didn't reach her toes the way Marcus's had.

And then there was the Quidditch match, the way his body had gone rigid when she'd kissed his cheek...

Weren't boys supposed to be simple? 

Weren't they supposed to _want_ you to touch them? Was there something wrong with _her?_

She was no big-breasted broom bint, true, but as Alicia's saying went, she had eyes and tits and arse in all the appropriate places, and in reasonable if not very generous proportions. Katie had never thought of herself as beautiful, exactly, but she knew in the grand scheme of things, she was not completely unattractive either.

No, reasoned Katie, perhaps it was just a very bad idea to kiss someone you'd been friends with for a long time.

Angelina rolled over onto her stomach. “All right, Katie next. How about...Marcus Flint?”

Katie thought there was a rather knowing look in her friend's eyes when she said it. Of course her friends had seen her dance with Marcus at the Winter Ball and assaulted her with a barrage of questions, but Katie had laughed it off and told them she'd lost a bet. Still, that clever look in Angelina's eyes...but how could she know? Katie hadn't told anyone about Marcus. What would have been the point? They would have pronounced her mental straight away and hauled her off to St. Mungo's to have her head examined.

Katie decided she was being paranoid. “Detestable.”

“Ah, ah! That's not an option,” said Angelina, wagging her finger. Katie resisted the urge to push her friend off the bed.

“Then hexable,” replied Katie, thinking of the Yule Ball, about being left frustrated, cold, and confused. “Most definitely hexable.”

Before Angelina or Alicia could expound on her emphatic answer, Katie cleared her throat and began again. “All right then, Alicia, Michael Corner?”

Alicia nearly spit out her second chocolate frog. “That little wanker? Hexable. In fact, I nearly hexed him myself at the last DA meeting. Wouldn't shut up about the last Quidditch match.” 

“Best meeting yet.” said Angelina, grinning. “My Patronus has got a lot more shape to it now. Think it's some sort of dog. Looks a bit like our old bloodhound, Kessler, actually.”

Katie smiled at the memory of the last DA meeting. After a lot of work, she'd finally managed a corporeal Patronus. It hadn't been easy- charmwork rarely was for her. Casting an imperturable charm in the privacy of her bed, she'd spent nights up practicing, trying to conjure a memory good enough to give it shape, instead of the wispy sort of light that usually blossomed from her wand before winking out.

It was a memory of her father that had finally done it, of him gathering her up after her first winning Quidditch match in the junior league, hefting her onto his shoulders and telling anyone who would listen about Katie's three time goal-scoring streak as she grinned and laced her fingers under his jaw as he carried her about the field.

 _Her father's strong, broad shoulders, and Katie rested her full weight on them, tired from the match and happy from her win, knowing her father would hold her up, hold her little world up on his shoulders-_

The silver vapor that had poured from her wand solidified into form and shape, and Katie blinked as a fully formed creature stared back at her, its beautiful eyes bright, its long tail twitching. A cheetah, its spots a silvery sheen against the bright glow of its body, turned its long body towards her.

Katie had blinked back tears as she reached out to touch it. 

_Hooking her hands underneath her father's chin as he zoomed around the lawn, jostling her, gazing at the sunset on top of his shoulders-_

_“And it's Katie Bell, fast as a cheetah, more powerful than a, a, a really fast bloody thing, maybe another cheetah, two cheetahs, Katie Bell, Quidditch Champion and all-round mistress of the universe!”_

-but her hand had passed through the silver cat, leaving it empty. 

Why were the things she wanted always out of her reach?

_And when would she learn to stop reaching for them?_

“Katie, what's wrong?” asked Alicia, frowning.

“Nothing,” said Katie, smiling quickly. “Got a bogey-flavored one,” she said, holding up the bag of jelly beans.

“Yeeargh, why you eat those things, I'll never know,” replied Alicia. “All right, I've got a good one for you. Professor Dumbledore.”

“What?” asked Katie.

Angelina shook her head. “Twisted, even for you, Ali.”

Katie rolled her eyes. “Dumbledore's about a century and a half, Alicia.”

“So that's my point! The man's been waving his wand about for about a century and a half!” exclaimed Alicia. “Think of the skill, the finesse, the absolute-” the rest of Alicia's pitch was cut off as Katie and Angelina descended on her with pillows, all three of them erupting into laughter.

Later, in the privacy of her bed curtains, Katie thought about what what she and her friends had talked about. About Angelina's night with Fred, and how 'sweet' it had been. With Marcus, Katie knew there wouldn't be candles or butterbeer. It would not be hesitant or cloying. The way he kissed, the way his hands traveled up her body and fisted in her hair was confident, experienced. If he had stayed, if his fingers kept trailing her skirt up her thighs, over her waist....

Katie bit her lip and turned her cheek into the pillow, her hand spanning across her stomach and disappearing beneath the sheets, slipping under with her thoughts. 

After, she took a steadying breath, staring up at the curtains, alone in her bed with the shattered remains of her thoughts. Her heart was still hammering in her chest. A bird beating its wings, frustrated, trying to break free.

It was better this way, wasn't it? Indulging in the daydream and not chasing after the real thing? 

After all, even if Marcus Flint had been responsible for the high she was now climbing down from, wasn't it just as likely she'd wind up alone in her bed?  
…..  
….  
…  
..  
.

_Dear Katie,  
I hope you received the package of sweets and the sweater I sent last week. The shop is very busy at the moment, with a sudden rush in orders for ornate dress robes for the second-eldest Greengrass daughter's wedding. There are four daughters in that family in total, I think, so it's good to know we can expect future business._

_News from school tells me of your activities in the group known as DA. Though many may disagree with Umbridge's methods, she is of the Ministry, and it is in Dumbledore's best interest (and yours) to lay low until the Ministry loses interest in whatever it hopes to accomplish at Hogwarts. You are young, and you are idealistic, but Katie...the right thing is a fine thing, but it is not the only thing. Remember that._

_There is a lot of your father in you, Katie, and I worry it will turn out for you as it did for him. Be careful, please._

_With love,  
Mother_

Crumpling the note, Katie tossed it into the fire.

She was not afraid. She was her father's daughter, and she would face whatever came, when it came...just as he had.

Katie gripped her necklace, watching as the flames consumed the crumpled letter and wishing, more than ever, her father was there to talk to.

Her father had always understood about Quidditch. He would have understood about this.  
…..  
….  
…  
..  
.


	10. Chapter 10

**Year Seven**

The road to the Bell's house was a long, winding path that cut through old streets, past sturdy brick buildings and trees as old as Merlin himself. 

Today, it was filled with mist, obscuring the view only feet ahead of her. There were no cars on the street, no foot traffic, just fog and the vague, silvery outline of trees. Katie was alone on the path, but it did not trouble her. It was a familiar, if misty place, and she felt calm, and strangely peaceful.

As she walked, buildings began to pass her in clouds of shadow and vapor. She should be home by now, shouldn't she?

As if on cue, Wilkison's mailbox seemed to materialize in front of her. Just a few more blocks, then, and she'd be home.

The mist cleared a fraction, showing a tall, broad-shouldered figure ahead of her. Tattered leather jacket, hands jammed in his back pockets as he looked at something off in the distance....it was the old practice Quidditch field, which had now just materialized as well.

Katie's heart clenched. “Dad?”

It was. Katie recognized those shoulders, the tall, towering man standing at the edge of the goal post, his hands in his pockets. Katie's heart thudded in her throat.

“Dad!”

Jack Bell turned and vanished into the mist. The quidditch field disappeared.

Katie broke into a run, reaching out. “Dad! Dad, wait up!”

More mist. The Marsh's house. She recognized the horrible gnome lawn ornaments.

And her father again, staring at something in the opposite direction.

“Dad!”

Why wouldn't he turn around? He had to have heard her. She called after him again, reaching out.

But her father kept walking. The mist thickened, and Katie felt her feet slow.

“Da-” the word died on her lips as her father faded completely from view. The hand that had reached for him slowly fell to her side.

She called again, feeling her eyes burning. The bright, happy feeling that had awakened in her at the sight of her father began to crumble like clay-

“Kathryn.”

And there was that face, that smile she'd ached for as he smiled down at her, hugging her so close he nearly crushed her. Same broad shoulders, same neat beard- he had not aged a day from the last time she'd seen him at the train station.

“Ah, Kathryn. There you are. There you are. I've missed you...missed you so much...”

Katie buried her face in his jacket, taking a deep breath of the scent she recognized as his. “Papa bear. I've missed you too.”

Jack Bell held her at arm length, them, grinning. “You've grown up! So beautiful, let me look at you-”

“I'm playing Quidditch now, Dad,” she said. “I'm a chaser, and I'm going to try out for the professional team after Hogwarts, just like I said-” The words tumbled out, one after the other, there was so much she wanted to tell him-

_“Katie!”_

Jack Bell jerked his head up suddenly, looking at something behind her. Katie looked behind as well, but saw only mist. 

“What is it?”

Her father shook his head, and as he did, Katie felt her arm clench, a sharp ache that seemed to travel all the way to her heart. She struggled to take a breath.

Jack Bell looked down at his daughter. “Kathryn, you've got to go now.”

Katie glanced behind her again. Only mist. “What? No!”

“Afraid so, my girl.” 

“You...can't you come with me?”

That large, warm hand ruffled her hair, and for a moment, she was eleven again. 

“Can't, Katie girl. Can't come with you...wish I could. You can't imagine how much I wish I could.”

Katie looked wildly around. “I...but...can't I come with you, then?”

Her father's hazel eyes were shining, and for the first time, she saw grief in his face that mirrored her own.

Her arm was hurting worse, now, her heart clenching and unclenching like a fist. She thought it might burst apart.

“No, Kathryn. Not today.”

“No! No!” shouted Katie, grabbing for him. But her fingers seemed to comb through the mist. Like touching the Patronus. He was fading...

“Don't leave- don't leave me-” 

Her father's gaze was already beyond her. “Go on, love-give my love to...mother...your brothers....”

“No! Don't leave me! Don't leave....don't leave me again...”

Katie opened her eyes and stared into the dark, unreadable eyes of Professor Snape. 

The tall, white halls of the infirmary. White sheets that smelled like antiseptic. 

And her father was dead all over again.

Snape had the unexpected courtesy to look away as Katie turned to face the wall and sobbed, clutching her cursed hand over her heart. 

 

…..  
….  
…  
..  
.

Pints at the Leaky Cauldron had become a common occurrence for the Falcons after Friday practices, complete with meat pies and a few rounds of shots, courtesy of Falcon's Captain Blake Doxen. Marcus was on his third meat pie by the time the rest of the team got there- training always made him ravenous.

“You hear about Hogwarts? Some other student's been cursed,” said their newest Beater, setting down the paper.

“That bloody _school_ is cursed,” muttered Doxen.

“Yeah? How bad is it this time?” asked Foxanna, draining her pint and signaling for another. 

“Bad enough to land 'em in St. Mungo's for the last month and counting. Sounds like it could've been fatal, if Snape hadn't been there.”

“Who was it this time?” asked the broom boy, Dogmer. He had gone to Hogwarts as well, Marcus remembered. 

“Dunno. Bell something or other. 7th year.”

“Katie Bell?” said Marcus quickly.

“Right, that's it,” replied Dox. “Why, you know her?”

“No.” Marcus shoved back from the table, tossing down a few galleons before stalking out of the pub.

“Oy, Marcus!” called the Falcon's captain, frowning. “Where the fuck is he going?”

Foxana shrugged. Their fellow chaser was already out the door.

…..  
….  
…  
..  
.

Katie remembered the Jobberknoll from her Care of Magical Creatures class. A small, speckled bird that was silent for the duration of its life- that was, until it died. At that moment, it let out a long scream that consisted of every sound it had ever heard in its life, backwards. 

And for Katie, being cursed was the same thing- from the moment her finger glanced the cursed necklace, every awful, terrible memory that lived inside her seemed to flare to life, wrapping gleeful fingers around her heart and squeezing as she went along for the ride. 

The physical pain was terrible, a current strong as lightening arcing up her arm, but it was background noise compared to- 

_-falling off her broom, the ground coming up fast, too fast, the impact like a punch in the gut, knocking the wind from her, and a pain blooming in her arm. Alone in the field, scared, calling for her father, but he wouldn't come, couldn't come for her anymore-_

_-the sight of her father's body, withered like a pale plant in the hospital bed, her mother signing the papers with shaking hands-_

_-Marcus, standing by the hippogriff pen, his expression hard, hurling the most hateful words he could think of at her, things she'd thought herself in the worst of her pain, that if her father had been stronger or faster, hadn't believed in people so much, that he might still be alive, might still be with them-_

_-Roger Davies standing with Fleur Delacour, his gaze cutting through her, past her, the memories of his hands on her bare back still fresh-_

_“Roger, I'm just not ready yet, I'm sorry-”_

_The cold look on his face. “'Course you aren't. You're just a little girl. This was a waste of time.”_

_-clutching the sheets as he left, feeling empty, her cheeks heating even as the lump in her throat made it difficult to breathe-_

_Her father's eyes, glassy, dull, staring up at the ceiling, his broad chest rising and falling in time to the respirator-_

_-holding his cold hand as the heart monitor went down, watching the remains of life fade down to a single flat line-_

_Mother, turning her back, turning away and slamming the door behind her-_

_And then her father in that strange half-dream, standing on that misty street, her hand slipping through his, losing him then, losing him twice_

Cracking her eyes open to see Severus Snape, his wand point digging hard into her arm as he murmured under his breath words that almost sounded like music, a chant that chased the sound of the screaming away, pulled her up, up into the soft air, into sleep as tears coursed down her cheeks-

-and then nothing. No pain, no ghosts....nothing at all.

Though she was assaulted with questions from Aurors when she first awoke, Katie remembered few things about being cursed, or what had led up to it. She remembered walking into the bathroom, vaguely remembered arguing with Leanne....there was a face in that bathroom, but she could not make it out. It swam like a reflection in a muddled pool, far out of reach, and after awhile, Katie stopped reaching for it, because it lurked somewhere at the bottom of those painful memories, which were still as fresh and as sharp as the day she'd earned them.

The Healer shooed the Aurors away after awhile and gave her a sleeping draught. Katie happily sank back into the darkness, this time without the pain of dreams.

Her mother was there at her bedside when she awoke the second time, her normally elegant face heavily shadowed by sleeplessness, a balled up handkerchief pressed to her lips.

Katie moved to sit up a little, and her mother seemed to jolt awake.

“Katie, my little Katie,” she sobbed, pulling her daughter into her arms with crushing force. “I thought...like your father....thank Merlin....thank Merlin....”

“'m okay, Mom,” Katie manged, gingerly patting her mother's back. “....'m fine....”

Morganna Bell pulled back, tears streaming down her face. “What if I had lost you? What if those were our last words to each other, those horrible letters? All these years...missed time...missed Christmases...”

“I thought...” managed Katie. “I thought you didn't want to see me.”

Her mother released her and sat back, her hands tightly clasped in her lap. “You look so like him...like your father. It hurt so much to look at you....to see him...to remember that he wasn't with us...that he never would be again...”

“Oh,” said Katie, looking away, feeling the old anger harden in her, the old defense at her mother's distance.

Morganna sighed. “You were such friends, the pair of you. Attached at the hip, always, since you were in nappies. He always knew just what to say to you to cheer you up, whereas I...well, I always seemed to say the wrong thing, didn't I? You were my daughter, but I was never able to reach you...not the way he did.”

Her mother stared down at the handkerchief balled in her hand. “All these years, I thought....I thought how much you must have wished it was me instead. How much you must have wished...that I had died instead of him.”

Katie's eyes widened, and she turned back to face her mother. “No, Mum. Never. I just...I only wish you hadn't shut me out. It was like I'd lost you both.”

Morganna Bell sniffled. “After your father died, things were so...so hard. I'd left my old world behind and built a future with a man who no longer had one. For the first time in my life, I was poor. I was alone. And I was...angry. Angry at the world, I suppose, for taking your father away...angry at myself for not being stronger. Like your father. Like you.” 

Morganna took her daughter's hand and squeezed, smiling through her tears. “You _are_ so very like him, Katie. So brave, so irrepressible. He would be so proud of you. I know I am.”

Katie managed a quavering smile.

Her mother's eyes roamed over her for what felt like the first time in years. “I am sorry, Kathryn, so sorry for so many things. Most of all I am sorry for the time we've missed.”

“I'm sorry too, Mum,” said Katie, and her mother enfolded her in her arms once again. 

Katie hugged her mother back, knowing that not everything was fixed between them-

-but now not everything was broken now, either.

…..  
….  
…  
..  
.

Katie glanced down at her hand, flexing the fingers and trying not to wince, as much from the sight as from the pain. 

The finger that had touched the necklace bore a small black mark the size of a pinhead....which had then branched out the length of her arm like an old, gnarled tree, branches dark like veins, flaring across her shoulder and stopping just short of her heart. The mark looked like dark ink poured into her skin, a tattoo of a very twisted tree with crooked, climbing roots. 

The Healers had said that though the scar would fade with time, she would probably have the markings for life. And though Katie had never considered herself a vain person, her looks never being what she considered her strongest suit, Katie found herself rubbing at the marks with disgust, as if they were quill marks that would wash away given enough soap and friction.

Scars were good things to have, said Dumbledore, when he had stopped by to see her. For a very old man, he looked even more ancient than usual- the lines on his face more pronounced, his blackened hand tucked inside his robes. He was on his way to an appointment, he'd said, but wanted to see how she was doing. He seemed satisfied with her growing desire to leave the hospital, and the state of her scars. 

“Useful reminders or our strength...and our frailties,” he'd said, then presented her with a large bag of lemon drops.

Greatest wizard of our time, thought Katie, smiling, popping one of the lemon drops in her mouth. They were quite good.

It felt good to know she was not forgotten at St. Mungos. The Gryffindor Quidditch team had sent a big basket of chocolate frogs, along with a crude drawing of Zacharias Smith being trampled by hippogriffs and a note telling her to come back soon. Fred and George had sent along a big basket of Wonder Witch products, complete with 2 patented daydream charms which Katie was saving for when she got out of the hospital. Leanne had sent her the latest Wicked Witch romance novel in the series, which featured a handsome wizard on the front with a rather impressive wand. 

Angelina and Alicia had sent a vase of beautiful singing orchids, with a note promising to visit the next day. Mason had brought her a potted gumdrop plant and a puzzlebox, which she hadn't figured out yet and was on the verge of smashing against the wall. Mox and Kiran had brought a basketful of homemade fudge and cookies, a dream-catcher made with hippogriff feathers, and a rather friendly yellow Puffskein she had named Wink, who sat happily beside her on the bed and hummed as it scavenged for crumbs, spiders, and Merlin-knew-what else that was in a hospital cot. 

Hermione had sent along a hand-knitted scarf and a note telling her she was taking good care of Sophie. The scarf was a welcome accessory in the drafty hospital room, and Katie had draped it over her shoulders immediately. Someone had also sent her an enormous arrangement of daisies, her favorite flower, which changed colors daily. There was no note attached to the arrangement, but a newspaper clipping reading PROFESSIONAL QUIDDITCH TRYOUTS ON FOR LATE SUMMER had been clipped and taped to the vase.

Rolling her eyes, Katie smiled and sank back against the pillows, setting Wink on top of her stomach. There was no name attached to the card. But she could guess, given the writing.

Or maybe it was hope.

Foolish, either way, but there it was.  
…..  
….  
…  
..  
.

Angelina and Alicia were as good as their word; they came to visit every week, bringing bags of sweets, reading material, and of course, the latest gossip, saving Katie from her daily routine of boredom, depression, and the endless loop of her daily thoughts, which often contributed to the former. Her healer now allowed her a daily walk around the hospital, and she'd taken to visiting the other patients for company. Seeing Neville's parents had been a terrible shock, and she'd wounded up giving her gumdrop tree to Mrs. Longbottom. The poor woman seemed to like the colors.

Angelina distributed the usual chocolates and butterbeers, while Alicia dug for something in her bag. “And look who's made the cover of Witch Weekly- Top 10 Most Eligible Bachelor's Edition, can you believe it?” 

Angelina shook her head. “Full of surprises.”

“They'll print anything these days,” sighed Alicia.

“Why you subscribe to that rag, I'll never know,” said Katie, taking it from her.

“I enjoy it for its tawdry escapist qualities,” replied Alicia, grinning. “It helps me to indulge my many Quidditch-related perversions without having to pay to attend actual Quidditch matches.”

Katie rolled her eyes and flipped the magazine over.

And there, dressed in only his Quidditch padding and a pair of uniform pants, bare-chested and holding a 3rd-edition Firebolt, ash handle gleaming, was Marcus Flint, grinning at the photographer with a set of uncannily straight teeth. His dark hair was cropped short now, shaved on the sides to leave the top as a kind of short, spiky mohawk that combed forward, and his jaw was covered in a dark stubble. Anyone would have called him handsome, now, even Alicia. 

Though still broad-shouldered, professional Quidditch had streamlined his physique into a lean figure with muscles tightly sculpted to bone- knots of muscles trailed down his stomach, hip bones clearly defined and disappearing into his low-slung pants-

Katie could remember bracing her hands against those muscles as he kissed her, how they shifted under her fingertips, starting under her touch like a skittish colt, as if no one had really touched him before. The moment she kissed him back, it was like flipping a switch; that brief hesitance gone, cupping the back of her head and crushing her mouth to his, as if no one had really kissed him before, either, as if he was starved for human contact-

“Go on, read it aloud!” said Alicia, sitting back.

Katie cleared her throat and turned the page.

“Marcus Flint is an imposing figure, on and off the pitch. Dark hair and stormy gray eyes and a chest you could eat chocolate frogs off of-”

Katie rolled her eyes and let the magazine drop in her lap.

“Oh, go on, then,” said Angelina, shoving an entire wriggling chocolate frog in her mouth.

“But, lest I forget why I'm here, let's get down to the muscular- er, meaty details! Marcus Flint's flat is surprisingly bright and airy- tall windows and large white pieces of furniture sprawled across Persian rugs. He dutifully offers me a cold beverage, but what this reporter really craves is the scoop on his delectable young Quidditch star!”

“You've **got** to be kidding me,” said Katie, rolling her eyes.

“Read it!” insisted the girls.

“I'm not reading this aloud. It's ridiculous,” said Katie, so Angelina snatched it from her and began to read aloud herself.

“Marcus Flint, you're the youngest Chaser that the Falcons have signed in over fifteen years.”

Marcus gives me a dazzling smile and shrugs. “If you say so. I only pay attention to our current record.”

“Then you must be very pleased! Seven wins, two losses-”

“There's always room for improvement.”

“What do you think about the current rumors circulating about a possible Muggleborn Registration act? What effect do you think this will have on your team?”

The handsome young man gives me another shrug. “Politics aren't really my thing. We'll just have to see how it plays out.”

The young Flint seems as determined as the rest of the league not to comment on the current unstable political climate.

“And what keeps you busy in the off-season?”

“Training, mostly, though I've got a little place in Lampedusa.”

“Anyone joining you there?”

He shrugs. “Just the cat. She runs the place.”

Lucky cat!

“He still has her!” exclaimed Katie.

“What?” said Angelina and Alicia together.

“Nothing,” replied Katie quickly, fighting a smile.

“Rumor has it that the famous Flint may soon be off the market, however- Cedwin's Society page reports seeing him on several occasions with the lovely Acantha Greengrass, and the two looked very cozy at the latest Quidditch Gala, which raised funds for St. Mungos Hospital for the-”

Angelina kept reading until the end of the article, but Katie didn't hear the rest of it. She closed her eyes, sinking back against the pillows and quickly plastering a smile on her face. “Thanks, guys.” she said dully. The excitement she had been feeling earlier felt as flat as if it had crossed paths with the Whomping Willow.

“What's wrong, Kate?” asked Angelina.

“I-nothing. I just got sort of tired, all of a sudden.” Looking up, she forced a smile onto her face. “Sorry guys.”

“Well, we'll leave you to rest, then,” said Alicia, looking confused. Normally, their visits lasted until the resident Healer kicked them out.

“But we'll come again tomorrow,” added Angelina, scraping the candy wrappers off the bed.

“Thanks for visiting, you two!” said Katie, hugging them both. 

However, after Alicia had left, Angelina hung back. Katie wasn't sure she liked the thoughtful look on her best friend's face.

“You like him, don't you?” she asked, looking closely at Katie.

“Who?” asked Katie, picking at a frayed end on her scarf.

Her friend was having none of it. “Katie...” 

“Well, wouldn't that be stupid.” said Katie, looking away.

Angelina walked back into the room, seating herself at the foot of the bed. “Liking a boy is a rather stupid institution altogether, if you've noticed,” said her friend. “What's happened?”

“Nothing's happened. Not really.” Katie looked away. “...but...how'd you know?” If it was obvious to Angelina...

“As your friend, it's my job to notice these sorts of things,” said Angelina. At Katie's dubious look, she sighed. “That, and you're not a very good liar.”

Katie sighed. She really wasn't. 

“You're not mad? You're not going to lecture me?”

Angie rolled her eyes. “'Course not. If you like him, must be something good in him to like. 'Sides, you can't help that sort of thing. Look at me and Fred.” She shrugged. “If he hurts you though, 'm afraid I'll have to kill him. It's in the best friend contract. Got to kill all the blokes that mess with your girls.” The older girl hesitated. “ _Has_ he hurt you, Kate?”

_No,_ thought Katie. _Just been hurting myself._

“No. I'm fine, Ang,” said Katie. “Just...just an idiot, I guess.”

Her friend shook her head and smiled. “Everyone's an idiot about this kind of thing. It's part of the whole mental process...you sure you're all right? I could stay longer and tell you what a tosser Fred can be. Remember the incident with the enchanted underwear?”

Katie forced a smile. “Fine. I'm fine, Ang.” 

Angelina raised an eyebrow, but she smiled. “Well, all right then,” she said, leaning over and kissing Katie on the forehead. “See you tomorrow.”

After Angelina had left, Katie sank back against her pillows and sighed.

There had always been a line drawn between her and Marcus Flint, of course. Different houses, different teams, not to mention completely different ways of seeing the world, but it had always seemed a manageable gap, like something they could cross, given enough time. 

Well, something they could send owls across, at least.

Katie let her eyes wander back to the magazine in her lap, back to the handsome young wizard on the cover. Yet instead of feeling drawn to the newest Falcon's chaser, as so many normal witches would be, Katie felt the uncomfortable fissure that had first opened up during the Quidditch match widen. She found herself missing the burly boy with the thick eyebrows and the crooked teeth that rescued kittens and slipped her notes in the hallway. 

That boy was gone- this handsome, cocky-looking bloke had swallowed him up. Katie didn't know this version of Marcus- and she wasn't sure she wanted to.

It was a moot point anyway, wasn't it? Fancy Quidditch parties, the lovely Acantha Greengrass on his arm- Marcus was part of a world that valued blood and galleons, appearances and connections. Katie wasn't born to that world, didn't know it, and was absolutely certain she didn't want to. There had always been an uncrossable distance between them- how had she not seen it?

Because she had let her heart get ahead of her head. Because she had put what she wanted over what was real. Marcus was a bad idea she returned to again and again, despite the advice from her higher brain.

Katie sat and stared at the curtains surrounding her hospital bed, alone with her thoughts and feeling, despite what Angelina had said, like the world's biggest fool. 

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Rolling over, Marcus swung his legs over the bed, trying to catch his breath. His heart was hammering in his ears, and he raked his hands through his hair, trying to gather his thoughts.

A hand trailed up his back, nails harsh against his skin- he flinched at the touch. He was already regretting the actions of the previous hour.

“Who's _Katie?_ ” came the low voice, both amused and annoyed.

“What?” he snapped, jerking his head towards the sound. The hand was removed.

“Katie...you said her name, before, when-”

“No one,” Marcus muttered, dropping his head into his hands.

_Fuck. It was getting worse._

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After nearly two months at St. Mungo's, Katie was ready to break out. She'd already concocted a plan that involved some candy floss, a dungbomb, and Wink the fearless Puffskein. It was a stupid plan, when you got down to it, but Katie had found that absolute boredom tended to lower one's IQ in the interest of increasing the scope of one's entertainment.

Her anonymous gift-giver continued to send parcels. The latest was a retired snitch sent to keep her busy, which had half a bum wing and tended to fly tilted to one side. Despite its wing, however, it was still quite speedy, and though Katie was a Chaser, not a Seeker, the snitch provided excellent practice for her arm. Sitting up, Katie released it again from its small wooden box, and with a soft, trilling hum, the orb took to the air, whizzing back and forth, winking in the light. Sometimes she just let it out to watch it move around the room, the light from the windows winking off its gossamer golden wings. 

As it zoomed in closer, Katie made a grab for it and missed, wincing. Moving her arm still caused her pain, but it was the kind of harsh static sensation that came from moving a limb that had fallen asleep, not the horrible, crushing pain that had first greeted her when she first awoke. 

The exercise provided a necessary diversion, but it was also extremely frustrating. The lag in her arm served as a serious reminder that Katie might not be able to rejoin the school team, never mind professional Quidditch. 

Sighing, Katie shook her arm and made a grab for the snitch again, which once again zoomed out of reach. She was beginning to break out in a sweat from the effort. 

A knock sounded on her door. Katie quickly stuffed Wink underneath her pillow and hoped the snitch would stay out of sight for awhile. She wasn't sure what St. Mungo's policy was concerning Snitches and Snitch-size creatures, but she was pretty sure it wasn't friendly.

“Come in!” she called. Her former roommate, a somewhat strange man that had managed to curse his kneecaps off, had been discharged last week, leaving Katie with a room to herself. She certainly didn't miss the late-night muttering and moaning.

Her Healer for the day, an older witch named Marma Malady, parted the curtains. “Katie, you've got a visitor, if you're feeling up to it.”

“'Course,” said Katie, smoothing her sheets. Perhaps it was her mother with some sweetrolls, or even Kiran smuggling in some of that really good Turkish coffee-

The door opened again, and Katie heard Marma say “-again for the autograph. My grandson will be so excited!”

“-it's no problem,” said a familiar voice, one that made Katie sit up even further and, for some crazy reason, try to fix her hair.

Disgusted with herself, Katie let her hands fall back into her lap...then scrambled to cover her arm with the scarf.

“She's just there, go on back,” said Marma.

The curtains parted, and none other than Marcus Flint stepped inside. He was dressed simply in a dark jumper and slacks, and carried a large parcel under his arm.

“What are you doing here?” blurted Katie, by way of a greeting. Marcus raised an eyebrow.

“Doing my philanthropic duty as a member of the International Quidditch community,” said Marcus, scraping up a chair. “Visiting the infirm, incapacitated, and the mentally disturbed. Or, in your case, all three.”

“A man of the people _and_ a comedian to boot,” replied Katie, removing Wink from under the covers and setting him back in her lap. “No wonder Witch Weekly put you in the top 10 Eligible Wizards.”

“Witch Weekly is a fucking rag,” replied Marcus. At least his scowl was the same. 

“And yet, there you are, page 17, giving an 'exclusive interview',” she teased.

“Our manager's bright idea,” said Marcus, scowling. “Some crap about promoting a positive image and widening our demographic.”

Katie grinned. “You mean beyond ardent lovers of violence and brainless broom-chasers?”

“Yeah, something like that,” said Marcus, sitting down. “What the hell is that thing, anyway?”

“That,” said Katie, petting Wink. “Is a puffskein. Mox and Kiran gave him to me, since Sophie's not allowed in the hospital. He's really sweet...here, see?” She set the yellow puff onto Marcus's knee.

Marcus looked down at it. “Why the fuck do I need this thing on me?” But he allowed the puffskein to crawl up his arm, regarding it warily.

Katie shrugged. “Looks cute. Softens your image. Your manager should consider them.”

Marcus rolled his eyes. 

“So why _are_ you here, really?”

“You realize you ask me that practically every time you see me, don't you?” he asked, folding his arms. Wink took that opportunity to scramble up his arm, where it trilled happily, its long tongue snaking out to give Marcus's cheek a lashing...or to fish for bogies. It never got the chance. Marcus snatched the creature from his shoulder and set it back surprisingly gently on Katie's lap.

“I'll stop asking it when I figure it out, I suppose,” replied Katie. She looked down as she petted Wink.

Marcus looked around. “So, when do they let you out of here?” 

“Another week or so,” said Katie. "Can't wait to get out of here."

“And you're going to go back on the house team, right?” asked Marcus. “Quidditch?”

“If they'll have me,” said Katie. “Dean's replaced me, and he's a fair flier. And I'm...well, I'm not exactly at my best, now.”

“You'll go real fucking far with that attitude, won't you?” he retorted, crossing his arms. 

“Well, I've been cursed, if you haven't noticed,” snapped Katie, gesturing to her arm. Marcus's eyes traveled over the scars impassively, which, for some crazy reason, made Katie feel a little better.

“Yeah, and no professional team is going to sign you on out of pity, so you'd better start training up as soon as you're out. Ask McGonagall for permission to practice between periods- they'll be sending scouts around the last few games of the season. And this summer you're going to have to work your arse off, too.”

“But-”

“It's simple. Do you want to play professional Quidditch or don't you?”

Katie frowned. “Well yes, but-”

“But nothing. Owl me when you get your head out of your arse, and we'll talk about your training this summer.”

“I-what- wait!” But he'd already gone. The curtain swished behind him as he stalked out.

Katie sank back against her pillow.

_What exactly had just happened?_

The large box Flint had left behind contained a box of Honeydukes best chocolates and a new pair of Chaser's gloves.

Katie frowned at the now empty space that Marcus Flint had momentarily occupied.

_Why **had** he come, anyway?_

Marma bustled in before Katie could hide Wink under her pillow.

“Oh, don't bother,” said the Healer, smiling. “I already know about your little friend.”

“But-”

“You're not very good at hiding things, my dear,” said Marma cheerfully, opening her curtains. 

Katie sighed. Apparently not.

The plump little healer reached into her pocket and pulled out a bottle of amber-colored liquid. Katie, used to the drill, pulled up her shirt and held out her arm. 

The healing salve had a harsh, piney scent to it, but it no longer hurt as the healer basted it onto her arm and shoulder, making Katie feel a bit like a Christmas ham. “Just imagine, a professional Quidditch star in the wards today! My little Jaime will be over the moon with his autograph!”

Katie forced a smile. 

“And so handsome and polite!” 

Katie resisted a snort.

“How do the two of you know each other?”

Katie stared at her hands. “Oh, he was just visiting patients today. Charity work.”

Marma frowned. “Is that what he told you? Yours was the only room he visited today, far as I know.” The plump little woman bustled around her bed, fluffing her pillows. "And it's the second time he's popped by for a visit- but oh, of course you wouldn't have seen him, you were fast asleep then."

"Sorry, what?" asked Katie. 

"Oh yes, the second night you were here, came storming in, demanded to know what had happened, was pacing about the hallways for the better part of the evening till a Healer told him to go home, that you'd be fine after some rest."

Katie sat back in bed and frowned, staring down at the chaser's gloves in her hands. He'd come? He'd been worried about her?

She sighed. There went that gap again, seeming bridgeable.

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	11. Chapter 11

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After being discharged from St. Mungo's Katie's brothers insisted on throwing a celebration before she went back to school, complete with a big dinner, streamers, and a giant Quaffle cake with raspberry custard at the center. Mox and Kiran had decorated the ranch from top to bottom in fairy lights and streamers, and a roaring fire was blazing in the hearth in seven different festive colors, courtesy of Mason. 

Katie had insisted on helping prepare dinner, so Mason opened the bottle of mulled wine he'd brought and the four confined themselves to the cozy kitchen, relegated to specific tasks by Kiran depending on what he considered to be their culinary skill level. Katie had been judged proficient enough to mince garlic, while Mox and Mason (minus the usual bint), had been relegated to potato-peeling duty.

“Mum's seeing someone, you know,” said Mox, tossing a potato into the sink and glancing at Katie. “He'll be at dinner tonight.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Katie, smashing the garlic cloves with the flat of the knife. “ Astrovik Chadov. Chief textile supplier to Madam Malkin's and Twitter's. She's been seeing him awhile now,.”

“How'd you know?”

“Mum writes,” said Katie simply. “She already asked if she could bring him round.”

“You okay with it?” asked Mox, raising an eyebrow.

Katie shrugged and set the cloves aside. “Dad would've wanted her to. It's been over six years. It's like Mason says, I guess- can't expect her to stay boarded up forever.”

Mox spit mulled wine all over the counter. Kiran shot him a dirty look and handed him a dish towel.

“That's horrible.” said Mox, wiping his mouth and glaring at Mason, who held his hands up defensively.

“It's true!” said Mason defensively.

“You brought it up,” replied Katie mildly, chopping the garlic.

“All right then, change of subject,” said Kiran, grinning. “Let's have an update on that love life of yours.”

Mason promptly dropped his potato and stuck his fingers in his ears- Mox glared at Kiran before pounding the potatoes as loudly as possible with the masher.

“Nothing to report, I'm afraid,” said Katie, dumping the garlic into the pan. 

Mox and Mason looked relieved; Kiran, however, huffed a sigh of disappointment. “Not even a little?”

“There was....” Katie began. Only Kiran knew about the disaster of Roger Davies in her fifth year-she'd written him two rolls of parchment peppered with tears, and Kiran had responded appropriately with equal parts sympathy and creative death threats towards the offending young man. 

She'd kissed Dean under the mistletoe in the common room, once, as a kind of joke, but they were just friends. She'd kissed George a bit after they'd smuggled a pint of firewhiskey into the dorms and gotten quite knackered in their third year, but neither had taken it seriously and Katie wasn't sure it counted either. And Davies, well, Davies was a disaster that had thankfully stopped just short of a complete catastrophe.

All in all, the love life of Katie Bell was sadly more bumbling fantasy than actual substance.

She'd told no one about Marcus. And what was there to tell, really? One kiss and six years of dodging each other? Six years of advancing and retreating, or skirting around feelings that might or might not actually be there in the first place? It was more like fencing than a relationship, dancing around each other, each unwilling to create the first opening.

“There was...an idea of someone, I suppose, for awhile.”

“How much of an idea?” asked Kiran, raising an eyebrow. “Small idea? Medium idea? King-sized bed idea?”

“Kiran!” laughed Katie, dropping the minced garlic into the pan.

“Well? Did you kiss him?” persisted Kiran.

Katie's cheeks bloomed- Mason began fake-vomiting into the sink and Kiran swatted him with a kitchen towel.

Mox shoved the bowl of newly mashed potatoes at Kiran, giving his boyfriend a Look. “So, how about the Cannons this year?”

After that, much to Kiran's disappointment and the Bell brothers' collective relief, the talk turned to Quidditch until Morganna Bell and her new 'friend' arrived. 

Katie surprised herself by liking Astrik Chadov- he was polite, courteous, and had brought thoughtful gifts for everyone; curse-resistant gloves for Mason, a bottle of fine Spanish Red for Mox and Kiran, and a broom compass for Katie. He even joined in a few games of Exploding Snap, chuckling when his beard caught fire. He was not her father, and as long as he didn't try to be, Katie reckoned they would get on just fine. Besides, it had been too long since Katie had seen that soft smile of her mother's, and reckoned her Dad would've liked to see it, too...even if he couldn't be the reason for it.

Much later, after many mugs of cider, everyone said their goodbyes for the evening, hugging and shaking hands. Katie would be spending the night, and Mox had agreed to take her to Hogwarts in the morning. 

As he was leaving, Mason reached into his pocket and held out a key. “Look, I'll be gone over the summer- we're excavating a pretty nasty crypt in Cairo.”

Katie gave him a wry smile. “Is 'crypt' a code for Order business?”

Mason gave her a look that told her she was too smart for his own good. “You can crash at my place anytime while you're flat-hunting. Water the plants- well, the one plant, raid the fridge, whatever-” He held the key just out of her reach. “-but no blokes. Got it?”

Katie sighed and held out her hand for the key. “Like you didn't have about a bird a week trailing out of your dorm at Ravenclaw.”

“Where'd you hear that?” asked Mason, frowning at her.

“I have my sources,” said Katie airily. _Like Ara Stolks, who wouldn't shut up about it._

“Not the point,” replied Mason. “You're my little sister. You're a bloody nun. That's the deal. Yes or no?”

“Fine,” sighed Katie. “I can have the girls over, though, right?”

Her brother dropped the key into her palm. “Right. Take pictures if they decide to have pillow fights, won't you?”

Katie rolled her eyes and pocketed the key. “Be careful,” she told Mason seriously. 

“You too,” replied her brother, hugging her tight and kissing her temple.

After the glasses had been cleared away and the dishes done, Katie, Mox and Kiran sat around a crackling fire, each with their own mug of hot cider. But no one spoke. 

All their attention was for the wireless in the center of the room.

“These are dark times, there is no denying. Our world has perhaps faced no greater threat than it does today. But I say this to our citizenry: We, ever your servants, will continue to defend your liberty and repel the forces that seek to take it from you! Your Ministry remains, strong.”

Mox flicked his wand at the wireless, silencing it. He chuckled, but it was without humor.

"What?" asked Katie.

"It's a lie. The Minstry's been infiltrated at all levels, is what." said her brother, tossing his wand down on the table. 

Kiran got up and went into the kitchen, presumably refilling his cider and getting the popcorn.

Katie turned from her sitting position in front of the fire. "You know for sure?"

"That's the point, Katydid. No one knows anything for sure," said Mox. "Which is exactly what 'he' wants. There's no cohesion in the Ministry anymore- anyone that would rise up against him has no idea where his enemies and allies are. Even the Aurors're infiltrated, so aside from Kingsley and a handful of others, we're shut out there, too."

"Which is what we have the Order for," said Kiran, carrying in the bowl of popcorn and sitting down next to Katie on the rug. Lancelot wagged his tail hopefully at the appearance of food, thumping the forked appendage against Katie's side. Katie relented and fed him a handful of popcorn, his wet muzzle nearly engulfing her hand as he slurped it up.

“Assuming the Order hasn't been infiltrated as well,” said Mox.

"What's happened now?" asked Katie.

Mox and Kiran shared a look. "Better if you don't know." said her brother, and Katie knew that was the end of it.

Katie rolled her eyes, scooping out a handful of popcorn from the bowl Kiran offered her. "One of these days, I'll be in the Order, and then you'll _have_ to tell me."

Mox sighed. "By the time you're old enough to join, little sister, I hope we won't need the Order anymore."

Katie said nothing as she sipped the rest of her cider. However, she had the feeling that by the time she was old enough to join the Order, they'd need members more than ever.

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_Katers-_

_No boys. Don't clean. Make yourself at home._

_Love,  
Mason_

Katie set down her rucksack at the door and sighed. She'd made sure to set all security wards as soon as she walked in, and now took a minute to take stock of her surroundings.

Mason's flat was a typical bachelor pad- old socks strewn about, Wizard Quarterly's piled in the bathroom, and a pantry stocked with crisps and a lonely can of tinned tomatoes and sardines. Not much to go on. Katie supposed there was also a hunk of moldy cheese in the crisper, so theoretically most of the food groups were represented.

Katie made a quick stop at the corner grocers for some provisions and was delighted to discover the existence of a large farmer's market nearby, teeming with weekend traffic. She bought several bags of fresh fruit, a few cheeses, vegetables, and a bouquet of daisies to cheer up the small spartan space. Katie arranged the flowers in a jelly jar at the kitchen table. Her father had always brought her mother fresh flowers every Friday, and Katie had always loved the sight and smell of them in their small kitchen. 

After taking a moment to admire the flowers, Katie unpacked the groceries, turned on the wireless, and as Sophie and Wink made themselves comfortable in front of the hearth, Katie ignored Mason's note and cleaned the flat from top to bottom, paying extra attention to the bathroom.

After a dinner of grilled cheese and homemade tomato soup, Katie made herself a small pot of cocoa and settled herself in front of the fire, looking through the Daily Prophets classified section at available flats, circling the ones that had promise. She did the dishes and changed into a pair of soft flannel pants and an old vest.

And then, she sat down at her brother's kitchen table to compose a letter to Marcus. Sophie hopped into her lap, tail swishing as she watched the phoenix feather quill swish through the air as Katie dipped it into the ink.

Katie paused, holding the quill just above the parchment. On the scale of bad ideas, this was up at the top.

From his perch on her desk, Sparticus watched her curiously, bobbing his head and letting a soft hoot, no doubt wondering at the delay. She had, after all, been staring at the parchment for over an hour.

Marcus's offer hovered somewhere in the room.

She knew they were too different, too mired in their own convictions. They were from different families, different circles. They believed very, very different things about the world, and the people in it. They would row, clash, and butt heads and that would perhaps be the best of what would come of it. This would very likely end badly, and she knew that in all probability, Marcus was not the one who would be getting hurt feelings at the end of it.

Still, she would be a fool to refuse the help...especially help offered from a professional Quidditch player.

_Marcus,_

_I've extricated my head from my arse. What's this now about your grand idea?_

_-Katie_

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Marcus leaned back in his chair, setting down the letter in front of him after reading over Katie's words for what felt like the fifth time. 

_This was an absolute shit idea, whatever way you tried to spin it._

And yet, Marcus also knew it was time to confront this ridiculous infatuation. To get her out of his system. Because that was exactly what it was- it had to be. She had been a little girl at Hogwarts, and whatever she looked like now, she was still as naïve as ever with no real idea of how the world actually worked.

_Bell,_

_Meet me at Celdwyn's Pitch, 6am this Saturday. Bring your broom. Don't be late._

_-M_

It wasn't cruel, he told himself. He could get her out of his head, and she could get this ridiculous version of whatever she'd convinced herself he was out of hers, and they could go their separate ways, no longer burdened by their own delusions.

And at the time, it really had seemed like it could be that simple. Which, Marcus supposed, went to show you what an idiot he was.  
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Katie showed up at Celdwyn's Pitch early, in fact, wearing denim cut offs, a white cotton vest, and an old sweatshirt that sloped halfway off one shoulder owing to a large rip at the neck. Her hair had been gathered up messily in a ponytail, with wisps that fell around her ears and neck. She was holding her broom across her shoulders as she did her warm-ups. 

She hadn't seen him yet. She had a calm, contented look on her face, hips twisting from side to side as she gazed out on the pitch, stretching the muscles in her torso. The sun was starting to rise in a cloudy soup of reds and soft pinks in the hills beyond, and the hues caught in her hair, painting it bright.

And everything Marcus had told himself the past few months- that she was plain, that she was stubborn and unexceptional, childish and naïve, every wall he'd built up against her-

-they all crumbled to dust the moment she turned and smiled at him.


	12. Chapter 12

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“Not bad,” gasped Marcus, his hair plastered to his face with sweat. “Your acceleration's still shit, and you lag when you throw, but the passing's improved slightly in both arms.”

Katie laughed. “Careful there, I get weak in the knees when you turn the flattery up all the way.”

“You're impossible,” he muttered, rolling his eyes as he propped his broom against an old bench.

Katie dropped her broom and fell back onto the pitch's soft grass. Hesitating a moment, Marcus joined her. both of them trying to catch their breath. Sprawled like they were, their heads almost touched.

“So, Kat, huh?” replied Katie, a grin in her voice. 

Marcus cursed internally. He must've let it slip during practice. He hadn't realized he'd said the nickname out loud. 

She'd been 'Kat' in his head for years. The shorter version of her name that just seemed to fit- it was a reminder of the kitten she'd given him, and if he was honest, he just liked having his own nickname for her. To the others she was 'Katie'- to her father, she had been 'Katheryn' once. To him, she was 'Kat'.

He hadn't actually meant to say it out loud. 'Bell' was much more distant, more professional-

“And you need to work on your turns. They're still wide.” said Marcus gruffly, glaring at her as well as he could from the awkward angle. 

Katie, who was gazing up at the clouds, was immune to Marcus's glower. Her chest was still rising and falling rapidly, the gold necklace glinting in the fading sun. 

“The hell is that thing, anyway?”

“What thing?” she managed.

“That necklace. You never take it off.” 

Almost unconsciously, Katie's hand went to the small gold charm, closing her fist around it. She was silent, and for a moment, Marcus thought she wasn't going to answer him.

“It was a gift from my Dad,” she said quietly. “Last thing he ever gave me.”

Marcus sat up slowly, pulling off his gloves. “So it's like a locket.”

“No, it's-” she hesitated again.

_And why wouldn't she, idiot, when the last time she talked about her father you nearly made her cry?_

“If you don't want to-” he started, but then she held the locket up, and drew her thumb along the seam of the small snitch.

Gold vapor swirled from the locket, then materialized into a shimmering picture. A broad-shouldered man was running alongside a little girl, his hand supporting her back as she zoomed along on one of those starter brooms that hovered no more than four feet off the ground. The man's hand steadied her back, and then he let her go-

Both wore identical grins, and Marcus recognized Katie instantly, the smattering of freckles across her nose, her plait streaming behind her, her denims ripped at the knees like the ones she was wearing now. The man, then-

“Your father?”

Katie nodded, allowing the charm to fall back against her breast, and the memory dissipated into thin air. Wincing, she got to her feet, brushing off her denims and summoning up her broom.

“Same time tomorrow, then?” she asked lightly.

Marcus nodded, and she gave him a small smile and disapparated. 

She'd left him an opening, just then....and left before he could ruin it.

Marcus stared the spot she'd been long after she'd left it, immersed in his own thoughts.

It was late afternoon by the time he left the field. 

…..  
….  
…  
..  
.

 

_Hey Marcus,_

_Puddlemere is going to be playing the Harpies Sunday afternoon. Thought I might bring the wireless and a lunch and we'd catch it after practice. You in?_

_….._  
….  
…  
..  
. 

_Bell-_

_Meet you Sunday afternoon. I'll bring those old game diagrams from one of the first Aingingein matches. Mind you, most of the players were on fire, and the bloke cataloging the match also caught fire, so the edges are a bit singed. Still, thought you'd like to see them._

_-Marcus_

_p.s. Bet you three sickles the Harpies get smashed._

_….._  
….  
…  
..  
. 

_Marcus,_

_Looking forward to seeing the sketches. You're not thinking of instituting these in practice, are you? Next thing you know, I'll have a cauldron strapped to my head catching boulders, dodging rings of fire...._

_For Sunday, I'm making a roast. Pause for effect! It'll probably be edible- it's Kiran's recipe.  
Might even set it on fire- it'll be Guy Fawkes' night, after all!_

_(I'll explain about Guy Fawkes on Sunday)_

_And as for the Harpies, let's make it four._

_See you then,  
-Kat_

 

_Kat._

Marcus grinned as he pocketed the letter.

…..  
….  
…  
..  
.

Drinks at the Hag's Den on Saturday nights had become a standing order for Terrence and Marcus after graduating from Hogwarts. The place had decent pub fare, and was relatively quiet during the week. Sometimes Adrian joined them, but he was often busy with work at Twigs and Tassels, his father's second-hand broom store. Higgs, who now worked at the MOM as an Unspeakable-in-training, kept highly irregular hours, so their meetings were almost always late at night. This suited Marcus fine, as he could put in a second practice of his own, shower, and come directly from the pitch.

Higgs had usually ordered drinks by the time Marcus arrived, and this time was no exception. In fact, his friend seemed to be well into his second, and Marcus's glass was beginning to sweat.

“How's Quidditch, then?” asked his friend, pushing Marcus's drink towards him.

“For shite,” replied Marcus, taking a seat. “Muggleborn Registration act's wiped out half the team. We're pulling reserves, but there's not much point. At this rate, we won't beat the fucking Cannons.”

Terence shook his head. “Whole world's going to shite, I suppose Quidditch wouldn't be any different, would it?”

Marcus shrugged and downed half his drink. “Guess not. Harold, I'll have the pasty on special. Two.”

“Shepard's pie for me, thanks,” said Terence.

The bartender nodded and called something back to the kitchen.

“How's work?” asked Marcus.

Terence shrugged. “Still mopping up what's left of our inventory.” 

Marcus imagined things were still a bit of a mess in the Department of Mysteries after the Order, DA, and Death Eaters had all plowed through, though Terence obviously couldn't discuss the specifics.

Marcus sat back in his chair and tried to ease a kink out of his leg.

“By the by, your girl's in a bit of trouble, mate,” said his old friend.

Marcus glanced sideways at his friend as he lifted his mug. “My what?”

“Katie? Gryffindor? Chaser? Ring a...” Terence stopped short of the pun. 

Marcus slammed down his now empty glass. “She isn't my girl,” he snapped, regretting telling his friend about the practices. Terence was the only one who knew, and Marcus knew he wouldn't tell anyone, but still, it had been stupid to mention it at all.

Terence raised his eyebrows. “You spend an awful lot of fucking time messing about with a bird that isn't your girl, then.”

“How many times would you like me to repeat myself? Ten? Twelve?” asked Marcus, glaring at him. “There's nothing going on.”

“Then why bother?” asked Terence, lifting an eyebrow. 

_And that was the million galleon question, wasn't it?_

“It's something to do,” he replied. “The fuck do you care?”

Terence shrugged. “If that's what you're telling yourself these days, fine,” replied his friend. “But Bell's a known member of the DA, and she's on the list of Muggle sympathizers to boot. And then there's the fact that she's probably in the fucking Order along with her brothers, which paints an even bigger target on her back.” Terence glanced behind him. “Once the you-know-who looses the strings on those Death Eaters and decides to make things a little more public, her family will be one of the first wiped out, right after the Weasley's and what's left of the Longbottoms.”

“Where'd you hear all this, anyway?”

“Rookwood,” replied Terrence grimly. “Blood traitor's not far off from mudblood in a Death Eater's book. Just look at the Weasleys and the fucking mess they're in. And you can bet Yaxley hasn't forgotten Morganna.”

Marcus frowned. “What's her mother got to do anything?”

“Morganna and Yaxley were intended, back when she was a Selwyn. Or whatever half-rotten branches of the Selwyns that're still floating around.”

“So?”

“So she broke it off to marry that muggle, didn't she? Made Yaxley look like a pillock. Well, _more_ of a pillock. He was furious about it. Still is. Man's dumb as a troll, but he's got the memory of a fucking hippogriff.”

Marcus gestured. “Again, so what?”

Terence stared grimly ahead. “So, what's a lion do when he takes over a pride? Kills the cubs first. Wipes out her old world. Wake up. You've never been this fucking naïve before, mate.”

Marcus turned away and signaled for another drink. “It's got nothing to do with me.”

Terence leveled his gaze at Marcus, and raised his glass. “If you care about her, watch her arse. That's all I'm saying. Friendly warning.”

Marcus stared straight ahead, wishing he could ignore his friend. Ignore this warning. This whole stupid fucking war.

Terence seemed to be able to read his mind. “It's coming, Marcus. It's coming for all of us, one way or another. Whether we signed up on our arms or not.”

 

…..  
….  
…  
..  
.

 

“Pull up harder after you dive, or they're going to box you in!” shouted Flint, as Katie zoomed past him. “And accelerate faster off the drop! You've got to maintain a constant forward momentum, or you'll lag!”

The two had been practicing on the Falcon's reserve pitch for the past six weeks, now, and Katie was showing marked improvement. No one used the old pitch- it was old and overgrown and anyway, the Falcon's reserves had been all but wiped out by the Muggle Registration Act.

Marucs surprised Katie by being a decent teacher, if unrelenting, and unlike the others, he didn't cut her any slack because of her injuries. Best of all, he had Sundays off, and met Katie on the pitch when the sun came up. They often trained well into the afternoons, and sometimes, the evenings. 

“Won't she miss you being gone?” asked Katie, early in their training. “All this extra time out?”

They were both sprawled out on the grass as the sun came up, oiling their broom handles and clipping the tails. Katie had pleasantly surprised him by being a stickler for broom maintenance as well, and had eventually convinced him that Applewood's Handle Polish was better than Fleetwood's for a smoother finish. Katie had brought them egg sandwiches and bottled juice from a local deli, and the two hunkered down on the ground, rags at the ready, their feet brushing but neither bothering (or willing) to move their leg. 

It was then that Katie had glanced sidelong at him and asked him the question about being missed at home.

“Who?” asked Marcus, thinking of the cat, who was probably asleep on his bed.

“Er, your girlfriend? Greengrass?” Katie was giving him an odd look.

Marcus looked up from his broom, setting down his tail-clippers. “My what?”

“Your...girlfriend?” asked Bell, frowning. “I thought...er, the interview-”

Marcus rolled his eyes. “Don't believe everything you read, Bell.” 

While it was true that Acantha Greengrass was on his arm these days for social functions more often than not, she was also on the arm of several other single wizards as well. A gambling person would call it 'hedging ones bets'- in the pure-blood world, it was just smart shagging. 

And frankly, since Marcus had started these little extra training sessions, he hadn't seen Greengrass at all...or anyone else, for that matter.

Katie sucked a gob of egg sandwich off her thumb, and Marcus cleared his throat and looked away. 

Marcus polished off the last of his sandwich, getting to his feet. “Now, can we play some fucking Quidditch, or do you want to talk some more about stupid magazine articles?”

“No, I-” began Katie. She seemed to think better of whatever she was about to say, however, and mounted her broom, shooting past him.

For his part, Marcus found Katie to be an apt student. She listened, didn't argue, and most of the time, she took his advice. 

Unlike someone like Ginny Weasley or Angelina Johnson, Katie did not harbor an exorbitant amount of natural talent. However, she was naturally agile, fast as hell on a broom, and she worked harder than anyone he'd ever met. And because of that, she had potential. Whether or not she could stop tripping over herself to actually achieve anything remained to be seen.

The first few weeks were the hardest. Katie hadn't needed to push herself much for the rest of the Hogwarts Quidditch season, but professional Quidditch was on a whole other level, and Marcus was utterly without mercy. She was trying new maneuvers, pushing her brooms to its limits. She'd thrown herself more than once making a sharp turn that her cursed arm couldn't hold, landing hard on her side, going into a roll she usually fell out of, or once, crashing hard into the goal post when she failed to pull up in time. Marcus said nothing as she picked herself up, (some times more slowly than others), and got back on her broom, her cursed arm tucked tight against her body. By the end of an average practice, Kate was usually covered in sweat, blood, and dirt, or a combination of the three, and Marcus wasn't usually any better. 

Quidditch was an aggressive sport, and it encouraged close contact if not outright touching. Combine that with adrenaline, sweat, and an unspoken attraction, thought Marcus, and you wound up with a very bad idea that strained attention as well as muscles.

After each practice, Katie went home and submerged her entire aching body in a bubble-bath laced with muscle-relaxing charms, (her hand drifting below the water more often than not,) and told herself she couldn't keep doing this.

Marcus went home, drank himself sideways, beat off, and told himself he needed to stop seeing her altogether. 

Then they both got up the next day and did the exact same thing all over again. 

And wasn't that the definition of insanity, thought Katie. Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results?

“Try it again,” said Marcus, holding the Quaffle under his arm, “And this time, don't lean so hard into your turn, you're overcompensating and it's costing you time!”

Katie nodded and whipped around, zooming down the pitch and executing another turn. 

The selfish part of Marcus reasoned that Bell would be in trouble regardless of his presence, but the realistic part of him knew that Terrence was right, that it was only a matter of time before she'd be knee-deep in the Order, and he'd be getting a very fashionable tattoo in exchange for being allowed to live. And then what? They'd meet in the middle? 

There was no middle in the world that was coming.

She was a Gryffindor, and an idealist, and she was going to go down on the same fucking ship Dumbledore had, along with the rest of the Order. He shouldn't be giving her lessons. He should be staying the fuck away from her. Far, far away. 

But he was an idiot. Apparently.

“Better,” said Marcus, when she returned. “You're still lagging on the acceleration.”

“That's not deliberate,” said Katie, pushing a lock of hair out of her eyes. “It's my broom.” 

“Then you need a better fucking broom.”

“Like what?”

Marcus gestured to his own broom. 

Katie rolled her eyes at the Firebolt. “Oh, of course. Let me just gather my pocket change and run down to the corner store.”

“I could loan-”

“No.” Came the firm and final reply.

Marcus shrugged. “The Cleansweep's not going to cut it.”

“Ricorda Morran set the record for most goals in a match on a Cleansweep.”

“Yeah, fifteen years ago, surrounded by other Cleansweeps.”

A clap of thunder rolled above them, causing them both to look up. Thick, grey clouds were rolling in.

“Now try it again, and push it forward after the drop.”

Turning her broom, Katie leaned forward and shot down the pitch, circling around. She started from a dead stop, whipping up and then dropping down, pulling up hard as he'd instructed. 

“Better!” shouted Marcus. “But you're still lagging on the uptake!” 

Katie pulled up as hard as she could, straining the muscles in her arms. Marcus could practically hear the old broom groaning with the effort. 

Leveling off, Katie swung her broom around and came back.

“That's enough for today,” said Marcus, drawing his forearm over his face to wipe away the sweat.

“See you tomorrow, then?” asked Katie, still slightly out of breath as she looked up at the threatening sky.

_Higg's earlier words were pounding in his head._

_Tell her no. Tell her this is a terrible idea._

“Yeah. Tomorrow.”

 

…..  
….  
…  
..  
.

Having spent most of her 7th year confined to a bed at St. Mungo's, Katie had missed out on several of the Quidditch talent scouts that milled from school to school, looking for promising players. She had resigned herself to perhaps auditioning for the reserves later in the season, or to getting a part-time job at the Ministry and joining a rec league for a year to keep fit until next year's tryouts. She had been both shocked and ecstatic to receive an invite to the first ever commingled Quidditch Tryouts. Usually, teams did tryouts by private invitation, but this year, for security purposes, the teams would be hosting a single session, with all scouts and captains present.

The tryouts were purely invitation-only, which meant at least one team was interested. She had gotten the owl while house-sitting for Mason, and she and Sophie had danced around the room, Katie laughing excitedly. Well, Katie had danced. Sophie had put up with it with a resigned look on her feline face as Katie took hold of her paws and circled around the room. 

When she'd told Marcus about it, he hadn't seemed surprised. She hoped he hadn't pulled strings to get her in. But she didn't ask. 

There might be a fine line between thinking you were indebted to someone and knowing you were, but Katie appreciated the distinction.

There was also the ugly fact that with the Muggleborn Registration in effect, the Quidditch community was more apt to consider applicants that they normally would have passed over. All the same, she would need to work hard to be accepted on a team.

Katie had expected that perhaps Marcus knew of an unused pitch she could practice on in privacy- she hadn't expected him to show up on it as well. Still, it had made sense to train with him. As foolish as it was, it was an excellent opportunity, and Katie knew it would be mad to turn it down. And apparently, given the choice between her emotional well-being or the opportunity for Quidditch, she'd take Quidditch every damned time.

She would have to be at her best for tryouts. Hundreds of talented Quidditch players would be there from all over the world, and she would wager to guess they wouldn't be flying with old curse wounds on older brooms. Good flying would not be enough- she would have to be exceptional. She would have to make an impression. She'd need a strong reverse pass, a strong showing of the Woollongon`g Shimmy, and of course, she'd need to make a show of speed as well, which was her main strength. But even that wouldn't be enough. She would have to show them something memorable, something impressive-

Something like Wagman's Cross.

Wagman's Cross was a nearly obscure Quidditch move that had been first attempted by Ern Wagman in 1487 while playing for Puddlemere United against the Harpies. It was an intimidation move against the keeper- two wide sweeps of the pitch were followed up by a full on charge at the goal, banking up sharply at the last second with a reverse-arm score to the far hoop. It was noted in “Quidditch Through the Ages” because Wagman had nearly killed himself doing it- after scoring, he'd lost control of his broom, flown into the middle post, and concussed himself into a coma for the next two months. 

Wagman's Cross had been pulled off successfully by only two chasers since- Wilmit Brancer and Sonya Argulith. Brancer had been on a 1st edition Firebolt and Argulth had done it on a Nimbus 1000, but she was 5'2 and lighter than Katie could ever hope to be without the loss of a few limbs. No, if Katie was going to pull off Wagman's Cross, she was going to need speed on her side. 

She'd tried the maneuver on her Cleansweep 11 and nearly recreated Wagman's famous blunder, coming inches from splitting her skull open on the lowest goal post. No, her beautiful old broom wasn't going to cut it. Marcus had been right. She needed a better broom.

Quality Quidditch Supplies had a Firebolt V: Limited Edition in the window. She'd stopped to admire it several times- the gleaming ash handle, the perfectly trimmed tail, the gleaming silver foot brace. It was the last one in stock, as recent goblin strikes had halted production yet again. There were no second-hand Firebolts to be had, for obvious reasons, and the broom had no comparable equal on the market.

Katie had some savings from birthdays and Christmas in the amount of 30 galleons. She'd also spent a fair few summer holidays helping with some commission work for her mother, so that was another 15.

She was still woefully short, however, and Quality Quidditch Supplies demanded the balance be paid in full, up front.

Her mother did not have that sort of money, and though Katie knew her brothers would have loaned it to her in a second, she could not bring herself to ask. And she would rather have chewed glass than ask Marcus. 

The truth was that she wanted to achieve her dreams on her own legs- her own means.

Which left the one thing of real value she owned, really...

Katie fingered the gold snitch at her throat, her eyes burning.

It was a question of her future or a question of her past. She knew, logically, she could not reach for one while still grasping the other. It was the way of the world. You either buried yourself in your memories or cut away at parts of yourself to be free. Pain in either direction.

And her father...

Her father had always understood about Quidditch....

Katie cried all the way to the pawn shop.

...and all the way home.

…..  
….  
…  
..  
.

The next day, eyes red-rimmed, Katie had shown up at the practice field at the usual time, clutching her brand new Firebolt and trying very hard not to think of anything except Quidditch, playing Quidditch, and obtaining a slot on a reputable Quidditch team. 

Marcus raised an eyebrow when he saw the broom, admiring the craftsmanship and wondering just how in the hell she was able to afford it. “Not bad.”

Katie shrugged, throwing her leg over the Firebolt and tying back her hair. For the newest owner of the world's best broom, she seemed remarkably unenthusiastic. There were shadows under her eyes, and her hair looked like she'd slept on it.

There was something else as well. Katie was wearing her typical practice outfit- a loose fitting zip-up sweatshirt and old denims. But something was missing.

“Where's that necklace you've always got on?” asked Marcus, gesturing.

Katie tightened her grip on her broom and lifted off with a lunge. “Are we going to practice or not?”

Marcus lifted an eyebrow. That was usually _his_ question.

Katie closed her eyes as she ascended. The broom shot into the air, rocketing up as light as a feather in an updraft. Easy. Smooth as silk.

Eyes stinging, she set her jaw and took the broom through its pacing.

Frowning, Marcus took off after her...and spent the next three hours trying to keep up.

Katie always practiced hard, but today, her work ethic bordered on reckless. She banked too hard into turns, nearly unseating herself, and when she threw passes or goals, she hurled them with far more force than necessary, nearly unbalancing herself.

Finally, after receiving a pass that stung his palm through the leather, Marcus brought his broom to a halt. Katie, waiting for the pass, eventually circled back.

“What the fuck's up with you today?” he asked her. “'Cause whatever this is, it isn't working.”

“What isn't working?” Katie brushed a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. “Have I missed a single pass? Is my timing off?”

Marcus leaned back, resting his feet against the bipod. “That's not the point.”

“No, that _is_ the point, Flint,” snapped Katie. “I've already got two big brothers. I don't need you breathing down my neck as well.”

So he was back to 'Flint' now. Great.

“You're going to tell me nothing's bothering you?” he said, throwing up his arms. “This isn't Quidditch, it's some vendetta. You're a fucking mess out there today.”

“You wouldn't understand,” said Katie, looking away. 

“How could I?” snapped Marcus. “When you won't say a damned thing about it!”

“And why would I?” she shouted, her eyes suddenly bright. “That's how we work, isn't it? Let's just keep it about Quidditch, shall we?”

“What are you on about?” he snapped. 

But he knew. It was the same thing his brain danced around every night, that last bubble of space they had yet to cross.

“You know what, you were absolutely right,” said Katie quietly, wiping her sleeve across her face. “Whatever this is, it isn't working.” Before he could respond, she dropped out of the air. 

“Katie!”

But she was already on her feet. She did not turn, but continued to storm off the pitch, dragging her brand new broom behind her like an old rag. 

Marcus descended, jogging after her. “Kat!”

She twisted, and promptly disappeared from view.

“Well, fuck,” he muttered, throwing his broom to the ground.  
…..  
….  
…  
..  
.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to those who have left kudos, and reviews! In the next chapter, Katie and Marcus finally stop running. (for awhile, anyway.)


	13. Chapter 13

_Dear Mason,_

_Thanks for letting me crash at your place. You'll be happy to know your flat is bloke-free, and that, despite your orders, I did do a little cleaning. (Note: It's called dusting. Thank me later.) I've got a promising flat I'm looking at next week. Don't worry, I'll continue to water your (one) plant till you get back._

_Tryouts are two months from now, and I'm practicing every day. Muscles I never knew I had are sore, but I'm making some progress with the arm. Who knows, by next year, you might be asking me for my autograph! Remember how Dad used to come to our matches and scream at us to tackle the other Chasers? Never quite did get hang of the rules, did he?_

_Miss him more than ever, sometimes._

_I went round to Mum's last weekend for tea. Astrovik was there- had a big deal go over in Sweden and brought along some chocolates- I'm enclosing what's left. Seems a nice enough sort of bloke. If he makes her happy, that's the main thing, right? It's what Dad would want. Have to appreciate a bloke that tries to buy your affection with chocolates, at least._

_Mox and Kiran are doing well. Busy, like you are. Caught a glimpse of the mooncalves when I popped out to visit last time- they're beautiful, all shimmery like bovine mercury when they move. Did you ever see them? Lately Kiran has taken the liberty of decorating the thestrals. There's no actual hair to braid on them, not like an Abraxan, so he's taken to making little flower crowns and sort of just hanging it round them. They don't seem to mind, and Kiran says it makes them look festive._

_Mox says Kiran's mental. Kiran says Mox lacks artistic flair._

_Perhaps it's a bit of both...though I must admit they do look rather festive._

_Hope this package reaches you. Come back soon, and safe-_

_Love from,_  
Katie  
your favorite (and only) sister 

…..  
….  
…  
..  
.

 

Muggle London, from what Marcus could discern, was a lot of noise, crowds, and ridiculous contraptions known as cars, which were apparently driven mostly by the blind or the blood-thirsty. This being only his second time in the Muggle world, it took him longer than he anticipated to find the tall brick building that was nestled between two identical tall brick buildings, or, as Katie's return address had read, “Painsthorpe Road, Stoke Newington, London N14” on the package. 

At least, he hoped that was her address. There was a very good chance he could be arriving on the doorstep of a purveyor of fine leather goods instead.

It was after an hour of frustrated searching that Marcus trudged up the front steps to the brick building and banged the owl knocker attached to the door with more force than was entirely necessary.

“Who is it?” called a familiar voice.

“Marcus Flint.”

A pause. “Yeah? Prove it.”

Marcus sighed. “Your cat's name is Sophie.”

“Really, now. Even a Death Eater would know that one.”

He thought a moment. “The Cannons suck.”

“Now that's just common knowledge. Try again.”

Marcus smiled despite himself. “That kitten you gave me is a pain in the ass.”

“Right then, what's her name?”

“Ceres.”

A pause. “What's her favorite food?”

“Used to be cream with sardines in it. Now she likes salmon.”

The door unlocked with a click.

Katie was lying on her stomach, watching a box Marcus recognized from Muggle Studies as a 'tell-a-vision'. A man in a king outfit and a man behind a castle wall were having some sort of debate.

“It's not a question of where he grips it, it's a question of weight-ratios!” shouted the man on the wall. Katie laughed.

Something in Marcus's chest did a kind of half-somersault at the sound.

Katie was still in her pajamas- or what apparently passed for Muggle pajamas; a plain white vest and a pair of blue cotton shorts that climbed well above the knee. Her hair was tied back in a sloppy ponytail which she'd pulled over one shoulder, and she was eating some sort of colorful loop cereal, her wand within easy reach next to her bowl. 

Marcus glanced around the flat- sparsely decorated, with beat-up but comfortable looking furniture. Definitely a bloke's flat. But whose? Boyfriend? Friend? Brother?

“ _This_ is how you celebrate your birthday?”

Katie glanced over her shoulder, her eyebrows no doubt raised at the fact that he'd remembered. “Why, how was it for you? Greengrass jump out of a cake?”

No, he'd gotten piss drunk with his new teammates and fucked a girl who wanted to sleep with a Quidditch star. Any Quidditch star. Maisey had baked a cake.

“Something like that.”

Katie rolled over and sat up, clicking a small box that made the tell-a-vision go black. “Actually, I'm recovering _from_ the celebration. Mox and Kiran cooked a big celebration dinner, and we finished up at the Red Truffle with some friends.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow- the Red Truffle wasn't cheap. “New boyfriend take you?” he asked, gritting his teeth against her answer.

“Mum's boyfriend. He's got money,” replied Katie, by way of explanation, and something in Marcus that was tightly wound released.

“Owner of Chadov's Textiles, right?”

“That's the one. Must be one of your lot, then.” 

“My lot?” Marcus raised an eyebrow.

“The bajillion galleon club. So,” said Katie airily, folding her legs underneath her. “To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit from Marcus Flint, Quidditch star and part-time philanthropist?”

“You weren't at practice.” he said simply. “Today. Or yesterday.”

_Or the day before._

She shrugged. “Needed a few days off.”

Marcus leaned against the sofa, crossing his arms. “The hell was that all about the other day, anyway?”

Katie's eyes lowered. “It's just...well. It's hard to let some things go, I guess,” was all she said, and Marcus knew that was as far as she was willing to discuss it.

Marcus reached into his pocket and held up his hand, displaying the gloves. “What's with these?” he asked.

She glanced at them. “Oh, they finally came. I'd ordered them weeks ago.”

The gift had arrived by a sleek-looking barn owl. Inside, between folds of tissue paper, lay a pair of dragon hide Quidditch gloves, supple and soft as butter with quillback leather grips, bearing the small gold leaf stamp of Morganson and Sons, the finest purveyor of leather Quidditch gear in England. More than Katie could afford. More than even Marcus would think to spend on gloves, whatever their quality. But the little card that came in the box bore Katie's familiar loopy writing, thanking him for all his help. Marcus didn't know whether it was a thank you gift, or an apology, or what.

“I know I didn't,” replied Katie, rolling her eyes. “It's a gift. A thank you, for all your help. I wouldn't have had a chance without you, whatever happens next.”

“They're expensive.”

Katie shrugged. “Mox and Kiran do business with Morganson and Sons for leather, we get sort of a family discount.”

“Yeah, well, still...”

Silence.

Katie raised an eyebrow. “What, Marcus Flint, haven't you ever received a gift before?”

Marcus thought of piles of presents wrapped by house elves in green and gold leaf left in empty, dark rooms. Perfunctory owls with stacks of galleons. New robes for important occasions laid out on his four poster bed.

She was teasing, but he hadn't. Not really. Not until Katie. Not until a little white kitten sat perched on his bed, purring, a ribbon around her neck.

“You've got practice today?” she asked over her shoulder.

“No.”

Rolling over and getting to her feet, Katie smiled. “Well, c'mon, then. I'll throw on some clothes and take you out for lunch. It'd be a shame to waste the weather today.”

Well, she wasn't slamming the door in his face or storming off. It was a start. Did that mean, then, that her storming off the pitch the other day had nothing to do with him?

A minute in regular time turned out to be ten in girl time, as Katie showered and got dressed. Still, Marcus supposed it wasn't that bad, given the type of girls he normally went to functions with took half a day to get ready. 

Marcus spent that time in the living room with the cat for company, trying to ignore the sound of the shower running. Knowing she was there, just feet away, naked and slick with water, sliding her hands over her skin, soaping up her-

“Whose flat is this anyway?” he called behind him, not sure he really wanted to know.

“My brother Mason's!” she shouted back. “He let me crash here while I'm flat-hunting!” Then the door opened, and Katie dropped her voice back to normal again. “He's got a strick no-bloke policy, too, so technically, you're not here.”

Katie left her hair down for once as it dried, the ends curling slightly mid-back. She wore a simple grey cotton shirt with a button-down front, and a pair of ratty old denims with scuff patches and holes on the thighs and knees. She'd also put on a pair of knee high leather boots with at least twenty buckles that appeared to have no securing purpose at all, and she was currently shrugging into an old leather jacket. Muggle clothing. It was an outfit no girl from Marcus's old house would have been caught dead in, but on Katie, it looked good. 

“C'mon, let's go,” she said, oblivious to his scrutiny, and grabbing his arm, she pulled him out of the house. 

Katie led Marcus down the street, talking about the weather or Quidditch or something else Marcus couldn't concentrate on more than a second at a time because she hadn't yet let go of his arm. 

“-stop at the market,” she was saying. “They've got all kinds of-”

Marcus looked down. Her small hand was warm- he could feel it through his jumper, her fingers burning in the crook of his elbow. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry.

Katie was looking forward, actually paying attention to where she was going. With her free hand, she tucked a chunk of hair behind her ear, revealing that her ears were pierced three times- twice in the lobe and once in the cartilage, which she had decorated with a series of simple golden studs and loops. He had never seen her wear earrings before, which meant she must remove them for practice. She smelled like gardenias- her shampoo? 

Eventually, however, Marcus was forced to pay attention to his surroundings as Katie took him through what she called the 'farmers market'. He had never seen anything like it. Small stands had been set up everywhere, and muggles milled from place to place, parcels in one hand, wallets in the other, balancing children and pumpkins and bags against their hips. Some even brought small trolleys to pack their produce into. 

Piles of gourdes, baskets of apples, and clumps of mushrooms were laid out on cloth and crates. Flowers of every color and kind sprouted from pots and water baths. One woman had a stand lined with peppers of every color and size lined up in a row, while an old man had a stand with different cheeses laid out on small stone slabs. Katie zoned in on this one immediately.

“Ah, look, eet is leetel Katie!” A small, skinny old man with an impressive mustache and a thick accent was cutting slices of cheese behind the small stand. “Good to see you as always! And you 'ave brought a handsome gentleman with you zis time!”

Apparently Katie was a regular to the crowded market.

“This is my friend Marcus,” said Katie, pulling him forward. “Marcus, this is Arnold. He has the best cheese in the market.”

_'My friend Marcus.'_

Marcus blinked. 

_A friend? She thought of him as a friend? After everything?_

“Ah, well, I have an excellent young Gouda today, and some goat cheese fresh off ze goat. You like to try?”

“Yes please!” said Katie, and Marcus watched as the old man took a knife from his shirt pocket and cut a few hunks off the wheel. Other muggles poured forward, picking at the slices like vultures. And Katie, unperturbed the the dozens of hands that had been on what she was about to eat, entered the feeding frenzy and popped a large slice into her mouth, closing her eyes.

“We'll take a bit of the Gouda please, Arnold, and a wedge of the brie, too.”

“Ah, very good, I shall wrap it up for you and your handsome gentleman, yes?”

Katie's cheeks colored slightly as she dug into her purse. Marcus raised an eyebrow. 

Within a few moments, Katie had her cheeses cut into wedges and wrapped up, and continued on down the lines to purchase a few apples, cured meats, and a small loaf of bread. Marcus wanted to protest her paying for everything, but was pretty sure the stack of galleons in his pocket would get them nowhere fast.

By the time they neared the end of the market, Katie's arms were laden with parcels and packages (which Marcus had quickly relieved her of and now carried himself.) His mother had imparted some manners on him, at least.

“And we'll take two of these,” said Katie, pointing to a pile of potatoes wrapped in some sort of crinkled metal. “With the works.”

“What is this?” asked Marcus, as Katie handed him one.

“Oh, they're jacket potatoes. You've never had one?” 

“No.”

“They're good. Try one,” she said, shoving a plastic fork into his hand. Marcus, who had never in his life eaten anything off a Muggle cart, and in fact had been told by several people growing up that Muggle food gave you warts, studied the flimsy utensil for a moment before giving up and digging in after seeing Katie eat a bite with no ill effects. 

They finished off their snack as they walked, or rather, Marcus finished off his own and half of Katie's. They were actually good.

A few muggles were playing music at the corner of the market- a fiddle, a guitar, and a jingly instrument Katie explained was a tambourine. Katie plopped herself down on a stone ledge, her feet swinging in time to the lively music, and Marcus took that as his cue to join her, carefully setting down the packages and hunkering down somewhat awkwardly next to her. Their shoulders touched, but Marcus stared ahead and pretended not to notice. 

The music was actually rather enjoyable. After a few songs, Katie got to her feet, stretched, and dropped what Marcus assumed was a handful of muggle money into the man's open guitar case. The man gave her a wink in return.

Katie weaved through the noisy crowd ahead of him, making her way towards the edge, and it occurred to Marcus in that moment how easily Katie straddled both worlds, and how much she seemed at home in each. Marcus had been born to one world, raised in one world, and had known only one world his entire life- in this one, he was as awkward as a fish out of water, and had to rely on Katie's knowledge to navigate it. It was an odd feeling, trusting in someone else's footing. 

Marcus did not bother to dodge the crowd- with his height and bulk, the traffic simply flowed around him.

“Now what?” asked Marcus, who had had enough of Muggle crowds to last several lifetimes.

“We'll eat lunch at the park,” said Katie. 

“We will?”

“Yes. It's my birthday, so you have to do what I say.” 

“Your birthday was yesterday,” said Marcus, which made Katie laugh.

“Don't you know? Birthdays are a week long affair. It's just a few blocks over, it's got a nice lake and there's a deer enclosure. A few of the does just had fawns, and they're adorable!”

After walking past the pen where a few curious fawns blinked back at them, Katie picked a place in front of the lake and the two sat down to eat the rest of Katie's market purchases. They made small sandwiches out of the bread, meat and cheeses- well, Katie did, passing them over to him. Katie kept up most of the conversation- Marcus was distracted by the animal pens, the muggle clothes, and the fountains that Katie explained ran on pumps. When Marcus finally got up the nerve to give her the birthday present he'd gotten her (he'd held off giving it to her in case she slammed the door in his face), her face lit up at the sight of the silver bangle bracelet, and had him fasten it on her wrist immediately. He was glad he'd gotten it. 

Whatever seemed to have been troubling Katie at their last practice seemed to have vanished, or at least she'd stamped it down enough to smile again. Although she wore her heart on her sleeve, Katie didn't seem like the type of person to nurse her emotions- at least, not in front of anyone. 

Marcus could relate in that respect.

“Can't believe I might be playing professional Quidditch someday,” said Katie, smiling, wiping her hands on her denims. “It's a big might, but still...”

“Who would you want to sign up with, if you had the choice?”

“Well, I suppose I'd always dreamed about playing for the Harpies, when I was wee. But I'd happy to play anywhere now, even as a reserve.”

They watched the deer mill about for awhile in silence before Katie spoke up again.

“Thank you, Marcus.” she said, quietly. 

“For what?”

“Well, for all your help, of course,” she replied. 

Marcus shrugged. “It's not a big deal.”

Katie picked at a blade of grass, her hair slipping over her forehead. “But you didn't have to. Why did you?” She pushed her hair back, looking him straight in the eyes. 

Marcus looked at the open, trusting look on her face and wanted to yell at her. Wanted to crush it. Wanted to ask why it was always 'why' with her, why he was there, why he had done something because with her, he never fucking knew himself. She was a maze he'd gotten lost in years ago, and he could no more explain how he got there than he could figure out how to escape.

“You shouldn't give up on your dreams,” he said finally, looking away. 

“And?” she asked, determined not to make it easy on him. 

_Because you weren't afraid of me. Because you were my friend when you didn't have to be. Because you aren't afraid of anything...because you remind me of...of her..._

“Because,” he said, finally.

“Is that it?” she asked.

“Isn't it enough?” he asked, exasperated.

Katie was uncharacteristically quiet for a moment, as if she was weighing something in her mind. Marcus let his gaze drift back over to the deer.

When she kissed him on the cheek, he jumped. 

She started to pull away, cheeks flushed, but he put his hand on her shoulder, stopping her. 

“Why?” It was his turn to ask, and he wasn't sure what he was asking about, either. Maybe everything.

“Because,” she shrugged.

“That's it?”

“Isn't it enough?” she retorted, smiling.

Looking back, that might have been the moment when he stopped trying to escape the incomprehensible maze that was Katie Bell.  
…..  
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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to everyone that's read and reviewed! The next chapter will be up shortly, and it contains (lord help us all) smut. You've been warned!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the fic earns that 'M' rating, folks. If you're not a fan of le smut, might want to move on along to the next chapter.

_Hi Mum,_

_Training is going well- before you ask, no, I haven't broken anything, and have no current plans to. I'm training with an old friend that's got quite a bit of experience, and I think I might actually have a shot. We'll know soon enough, I suppose. And yes, I'm well aware that this would now land all three of your children in occupations that have a high frequency of broken bones._

_I've finally found a flat's not too shabby, and the rent seems reasonable. I'll have you round for tea just as soon as they get rid of the rats. (Kidding!) It was mice._

_I'll see you Sunday for dinner._

_Love from,_

_Katie_

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“Lovely day, isn't it?” asked Katie, staring up at the clouds, her broom slung across her shoulders. Today, she was wearing an green hoodie that read 'Pike's Pub Junior League' that was obviously quite old; there were rips on the sides and the neck hung slightly off kilter. He had a mind to ask why all her Quidditch gear was half-ruined, but suspected he would get a tart reply about not belonging to his bajillion-galleon club and left it alone. Still, she out to have something with padding. 

Like a suit of armor that covered every inch of her skin....or a nun habit.

To support this idea, Katie also was wearing a pair of what Marcus assumed were muggle shorts- there was a white stripe down each side and the fabric covered mid-thigh, riding higher when she leaned over to adjust the laces on her trainers, which he was definitely not staring at. 

Marcus closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to think about broom maintenance. 

But it was harder than ever. She'd taken his arm on the streets yesterday, pressed her lips to the side of his cheek in the park. It had taken every ounce of self-control he had to get up from that grass and walk her back to her brother's flat, and by some miracle he'd managed to say goodbye at the door and not charged in and torn her clothes off. It helped that he was already late to Falcon's practice, and had his ass handed to him when he arrived.

“It's going to rain,” snapped Marcus, dropping his bag unceremoniously on the grass. 

“I was being sarcas-never mind,” replied Katie, throwing her leg over her broom. “What's got your knickers in a twist today?”

_Yours_ , thought Marcus, throwing his leg over and shooting off without a reply.

They practiced long passes for hours, and though Marcus still felt her left arm needed work, she'd achieved a satisfactory distance with the right. Speed drills were next, and by the time Katie made her thirtieth loop past him, it was late afternoon.

“Want to break for lunch?” asked Katie, catching her breath. “I didn't bring any today, we could pop over to the pub on-”

“I brought something,” interrupted Marcus quickly. 

Katie raised her eyebrows. “All right then.” 

He'd never brought lunch before. Usually, Katie brought something for them to share, on on the rare days she didn't, they popped over to a local bakery for sandwiches.

Lunch turned out to be pork pies, enchanted to stay warm, freshly baked rolls, and two butterbeers each, which Maisey had happily supplied with when he'd asked.

They ate in the grass, side by side, and Katie was telling him about the new flat she was considering, while Marcus was trying desperately to listen, to not to think about the kiss still burning on his cheek, or the few inches between them, or closing that distance to- 

Marcus finished his meal ahead of Katie in typical fashion and got to his feet, summoning his broom. He looked up. The air was heavy- it was definitely about to rain.

Oblivious to his discomfort, Katie wiped her hands on her shorts and got to her feet as well. 

“Thanks for lunch! What's next, then?” 

“More passing drills,” replied Marcus, lifting off.

“All right.” With a lurch of her feet, she joined him, shooting down towards the opposite end of the pitch.

The skies seemed to choose that minute to open up, loosing a heavy downpour that had them both soaked in seconds. Marcus scowled, but Katie just laughed, titling her face into the sky.

Though late fall, the air was warm, and the rain was only slightly cooler Katie pushed her hair out of her eyes. “How about a one on one match to finish off?”

Marcus shrugged. “You're on.”

Despite the years and experience separating them, they were fairly evenly matched in terms of strength. Marcus had better accuracy and longer range, but Katie was much faster, which made for an interesting game. Neither one pulled punches- at one point, Marcus slammed into her side, making her drop the Quaffle. When he recovered it, she sped ahead of him, reaching to intercept his shot when he moved to score.

It went on that way for over an hour. It was a pleasure to watch Katie fly- she reminded him of a Peregrine Falcon, all graceful lifts and sharp, lunging dives. He was used to playing with blokes that were sometimes twice his size in highly physical games that involved a lot of contact. Even a lot of the birds that played Quidditch were heavily muscled and built to withstand bludgers- Katie's physique was closer to a Seeker than most of the other Chasers currently in the league. But that small frame came with advantages- with Katie, it was a matter of trying to catch her first, and she didn't make it easy.

Finally, the two met in the middle of the pitch, hovering, both soaked to the bone and breathing hard. 

“You lose again, Bell,” said Marcus, holding the Quaffle under his arm. He peeled his goggles off, tossing them to the grass below.

“You cheat, Flint.” replied Katie, pushing her own goggles up to rest on the top of her head. Her hoodie was plastered to her skin- the shorts like black sheets of tissue paper clinging to her thighs.

“Me? Cheat? Surely you jest.”

“Oh, you're right,” said Katie, taking out her ponytail and wringing it out, for all the good it did. “Slytherins don't cheat. I'm sure that was a particularly legitimate elbow you threw in my side before.”

Marcus grinned, pulling off his gloves. “What's that phrase? If you can't take the heat, get out of the library?”

“It's the kitchen, actually.” said Katie, shocked that Marcus had tried to use the muggle saying in the first place. Darting in, she snatched Quaffle from his grip. “Asleep on the job, Flint!” she said, grinning. 

He made a lunge for her, but she shot back, laughing. “And Flint misses! He's too slow for the great Katie Bell, greatest Chaser since Wilda Griffiths! The crowd boos Flint off the pitch as he exits in shame and disgrace!”

Grabbing the end of her broom handle, Marcus jerked her forward, but Katie maintained her balance and reached her arm back further, extending the Quaffle just out of his reach again as he swiped for it. “He misses again! And it's Bell! Bell for the win, and-” Katie trailed off. “-and...it's...”

Katie seemed to freeze as he leaned in towards her. Her lips, wet with rain, were slightly parted, and she was still breathing somewhat heavily from their match. She was so close, he could almost feel the heat of her skin radiating- 

And finally, his higher brain screaming at him every inch of the way, he closed the distance between them, sealing his mouth over hers.

It was not a gentle first kiss, but then, he supposed it wasn't really their first. She let out an adorable little squeak of surprise that bled into a moan as he deepened it, sliding his tongue against hers, and any doubts he had about her wanting it were quickly gone as she tangled her fingers in his jersey and yanked him closer, nearly unseating him with surprise. 

_Finally_ was the only thought he hung onto.

**Finally.**

Somehow, they reached the ground, though Marcus had no idea how it had happened, only that in seconds she was sprawled out in the wet grass, his body shielding hers from the downpour. He was still kissing her, hadn't broken contact even when he tossed their brooms aside.

She pulled him down against her, lips and hips rising to meet him, their wet bodies a wonderful friction as he ground against her. She hooked her leg around his, urging him closer, harder against her, and he let out a grunt, breaking their kiss. 

He drew a deep breath. He had to keep his fucking head right, had to slow down-

And then she wrapped her hand around the back of his neck, pulling him down for another wet, open-mouthed kiss, and suddenly, everything in his head was silent save for her.

_Katie._  
…..  
….  
…  
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Katie's mind was reeling. Everything was happening too fast, and yet, not nearly fast enough.

One minute, they'd been laughing, and then there had been that fierce, almost helpless look on his face, as if he were a man on the edge of a cliff, looking down, and then-

-and then he'd kissed her so suddenly she'd nearly lost her grip on her broom.

The first kiss might have been a question- one fiercely asked, but a question all the same, but once she kissed him back, every subsequent slant of his lips was something else entirely. Flying, falling, and now sprawled out on the ground, there was no hesitation in Marcus whatsoever now.

Thunder clapped, far away, and Katie closed her eyes. 

Kissing her neck, Marcus reached underneath her t-shirt slide his hand up her side and cup her breast. She moaned and arched her back to meet him, catching her bottom lip between her teeth. He looked down at her, and instead of the smart remark she expected about her eagerness, he growled and yanked both her shirt and the bra down, exposing her raw skin to the pelting rain. And then his mouth was on her, and Katie closed her eyes and lost herself to sensation, tangling her fingers in his wet hair and pressing him down, holding him to her as he sucked and licked. 

Thunder rolled over them again, closer now, and louder, and his hand was at her denims now, undoing the button and the zipper and working his hand inside, slipping his fingers over her knickers, where she knew she was already very wet, and not only because of the rain. 

The grass was becoming muddy beneath them, her trainers slipping on the slick surface as she lifted her hips up into his hand. She squirmed beneath him, trying to get enough leverage to get her hand between them, to return the favor, and when her palm met the drenched material, the hot skin beneath it, Marcus turned his head and let out a curse. Feeling bold, she slid her palm along the hot, hard length of it, encouraged as he squeezed his eyes shut and drew a steadying breath.

It took a minute to rid her of her pants, soaked as they were, but soon those were gone and it was only her plain white cotton knickers between them, nearly translucent in the downpour. His hand hesitated at the waist band, and, impatient, she took his wrist and yanked it down until his large, warm hand covered her entirely. 

He looked at his hand where it met her skin, seemingly dazed, and she knew her voice was just a bit impatient when she said, “Marcus....”

The sound of his name seemed to snap him out of it, and he slid his hand beneath, and oh, his fingers felt so different than her own, so much better as he combed them through her folds and slipped one, then two inside, causing her entire body to bow up and a long, shuddering sigh to escape her, her hands clenching across his back.

“Kat...fuck,” he muttered, the sound of his voice driving her frenzy further.

Wanting to feel his skin, she removed her hand from the front of his pants and tugged at the end of his shirt. He ducked and shrugged out of it, tossing it into the grass. His hair, spiked with raindrops, dripped into his face, wetting his lips, and his chest and arms were slick and shining in the half-light of the storm. 

When she touched the buckle of his pants, he froze.

“...is it....do you....” he managed.

“Yes,” she gasped, laughing. “Yes.” She repeated, and he out a little bark of laughter in return, looking more boyish than she could ever remember seeing him.

He cupped the back of her head and kissed her again, working the zipper of his pants with the other. His pace was too slow, however, and Katie's hands joined his, helping. They got the waistband as far as his thighs before she pulled him forward, spreading herself for him, afraid that this moment, like so many others, would disappear, and take him with it. 

Kissing her again, he slipped his fingers inside her knickers and jerked, and with a slight pinch around her hips they gave way and were tossed aside. 

His fingers felt like lightning against her as they rubbed against her outer lips, her clit, then dipped into her opening, two again, stretching her more than her own slender fingers ever had, and she hissed and lifted her hips to pull them deeper. He kissed her again, deeply, and she moaned into his mouth as his thumb slipped up to rub against her. 

She tilted her head back, the rain pelting her cheeks, her hips rocking, chasing that sensation, her muscles climbing, climbing, his lips and teeth at her neck-

“Don't stop, don't stop-”

And he didn't, his thumb rubbing faster, light, shallow licks against her clit, his rain-slicked fingers pumping faster, faster-

Her mind went blank as her body shook, those same muscles unwinding, unraveling as she came. Her fingers tightened around his shoulders, and he buried his face in her neck, kissing the wet skin there as she caught her breath.

She lost no time. She reached down and wrapped her fingers around him, urging him forward, knowing from the look in his eyes that he was already close. When he hesitated at her entrance, she met his eyes.

"Marcus."

He made an almost pained sound and thrust forward, kissing her, teeth scraping her neck, and as he worked himself inside she turned her head and gasped, her fingers tightening on his forearms at the sudden, pinching pain that completely wiped away the pleasant aftershocks she'd been feeling only moments before.

“What-” panted Marcus, jerking up. “Are you-”

Katie looked away. “It's just been-”

_Forever. Don't tell him._

“Don't stop.”

He started to pull back, but she raised her knees, digging her heels into his back. “Don't stop,” she repeated, pushing him deeper despite the discomfort, letting her head fall back as she arched into him. “Please.”

He groaned as she rose to try to take the rest of him. The wetness from her orgasm helped.

“Don't stop,” she panted again, needlessly, and moving slowly, inch by inch, he seated himself to the hilt inside her. Katie blinked. The feeling was indescribable- full, hard heat filling every corner of her, inside and out. 

“Kat,” he growled against her neck, moving against her now. Short, shallow thrusts now, and the burning pain inside her receded to a dull ache, a kind of current that spread from her core to her head to the tips of her toes, a sensation that carried warmth and the promise that eventually, this could feel very, very good. 

Reaching, he knit their hands together, and she looked at them, dazed.

“Kat.” he repeated, and she pulled him down for another open-mouthed kiss. 

It felt amazing, this way, their rain-slicked bodies rubbing against one another, the tempo building, and Katie felt the pain bloom into something else, some winding, escalating _reach_ that resembled the one she'd chased before, but she knew instinctively that what lay at the top of that hopeful feeling belonged to another time. Instead of reaching for it, she settled back into her body, letting herself enjoy the feeling of his his skin beneath her palms, muscles clenching and unclenching beneath her heels, the harsh pant of breath against her neck and the feeling of their slick fingers intertwined, clenching with every thrust.

He buried his face in her neck, breathing hard, and after a moment, he started moving again. This time, she rose her hips to meet him. He let go of her hand and sped up, the strokes becoming harder, faster, until he filled her so deeply it verged on pain again. She welcomed the feeling- it came with the pleasant sense of being stretched, being filled, like the sting of cold raindrops on her exposed skin, the bite of the rocks at her back. Not damaging, not scarring, but filling, raw, ragged-it was the same vein as Quidditch, that race, the rush, and she wanted more, more- 

"Marcus," she gasped. She drove her heels into him harder, scored her nails across his back, and his muscles tensed as he acquiesced and drove into her harder, reaching himself-

He made no noise, just a lengthening of breath that told her he was close. When he came, he let out a long, shuddering breath as he sank against her, his heartbeat hammering against her skin, her own heartbeat loud in her ears.

Katie stared up at the sky, closing her eyes against the raindrops as she caught her breath, choking back a laugh. 

_Finally. Finally._

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of me still can't believe I wrote smut. The other part is giggling like a 13-year-old in the corner. Hope you enjoyed- the next chapter will be quick in coming!


	15. Chapter 15

Marcus came awake slowly, his hand spreading across the sea of sheets as he stretched. He opened his eyes and stared hazily at the morning light filtering through the large bedroom window, waiting for his brain to switch on.

He stared a moment, then narrowed his eyes. Something was off. 

The slide of satin against his bare skin was nothing new- he often slept without clothes. Pants and shirts strewn about the room, draped over furniture- also nothing out of the ordinary. He often shed clothes on the way to bed without much care of where they landed- it was, he supposed, the kind of carelessness one acquired when you grew up with house elves.

The indentation in the pillow and the mussed sheets next to him, however- _that_ was new. 

His eyes opened wider as his sleep-fogged brain began to recall last night's events, the memories jolting through his system like a shot of adrenaline. 

“Shit.” he said aloud.

After their heartbeats had slowed and the rain started to chill their bare skin, they'd gathered their clothes in a sopping pile on the Quidditch field. He'd taken her hand and disapparated back to his flat, where he'd pulled her immediately into a hot shower. He'd joined her, and they'd wound up back in his bed, where they'd started again. She'd eventually fallen asleep with her cheek plastered against his shoulder, lightly snoring. 

Then where was she? 

Gone?

Marcus sat up, throwing the sheets back with the realization. 

As he swung his feet over the side, however, something caught his eye. 

Faint red stains on the grey satin- it was only a few small smears, but it was definitely blood. Which meant....

“Fuck,” muttered Marcus, drawing his hand over his face as he fell back against the mattress.

The small, childish satisfaction that he had been her first was quickly overshadowed by the horror that he hadn't known to begin with. Their first time hadn't been slow- hell, he'd barely gotten his pants down to his knees before he'd shoved against her like some desperate boy barely out of wet dreams. She'd been...and he'd...of _course_ she hadn't stayed. Of _course_ she'd taken off as fast as her legs could carry her-

Plates clinked in the kitchen, interrupting Marcus's private tirade. Maisey was at his mother's other properties during the week unless he summoned her. Curiosity replacing self-recrimination for the moment, he rushed into the kitchen, where-

-where Katie Bell stood in one of his old Falcon's practice jerseys, busying herself over a frying pan on the stove. 

“You're here.” he blurted stupidly.

“Well, yes, I thought I'd make a bit of breakfast.” She faltered. “I can go if-”

“No!” he said quickly, louder than he meant to. “I mean...stay. If you want.”

“Do _you_ want me to?” she asked slowly. 

Marcus felt as if they were two soldiers of opposing armies, deciding whether to shoot each other, order a retreat, or eat breakfast. 

Usually, at this point in the morning, Marcus was long gone back to his own flat, or trying to figure out how to get the woman out of his-

“Yes.” The answer came quickly, before he could really think about it. 

“I-well.” She blushed. “All right then. You do know you're completely starkers, right?”

He looked down, and shrugged. Katie directed her gaze to the ceiling.

“What're you making?” he asked, approaching her.

“Egg pancakes,” she said. “My dad used to make them all the time on Sundays. You haven't got much in your pantry to work with, you know.”

That could be remedied. If it meant she'd be in his kitchen, half naked, cooking him breakfast in the mornings, he could buy a whole shop's worth of ingredients.

Katie, her cheeks still a charming shade of pink, had turned back to busy herself with the pancakes.

Marcus wanted to say something about the night before, to ask about her comfort and how she was feeling, to ask her why she hadn't told him, but he was pretty sure he would botch it horribly, and for now, she was still here, smiling, making pancakes.

_Still here. Making breakfast._

Emboldened, he swept the hair away from the side of her neck and pressed his lips there, liking the way she leaned into the touch. She turned in his embrace, and though it took a moment for her to meet his eyes, when she did, she was smiling. The uncertainty was very nearly gone from her gaze, and he was glad. 

“Last night...” she started, her hands wandering up his side.

“Yeah?” Wariness, fear, that she would say it was a mistake, that they should have left things how they were, and he braced himself against her next words...Marcus felt like he was on an obstacle course that alternated swiftly between tentative happiness and stomach-plummeting anxiety.

“Can, um. Could we go back to bed?” she asked.

“What?” He stared down at her. 

“Now?” she added, and there was the smile he recognized; impish, contagious- Katie. 

“You're not...” he trailed off, wishing that the right words would appear out of thin air.

“Not what?” she asked.

“Sore?” he managed.

There went that blush again. “Just a little.” she admitted, not quite meeting his eyes. “If you're not up for it...”

They both smiled at the jab. He was rock hard, and he knew she could feel it, too.

“Suppose I could manage,” he said, and his heart thudded in his chest when she took his hand and led him shyly back to bedroom, where they stayed for most of the day, interrupted only briefly to eat cold pancakes. She'd insisted on popping home to feed the cat and Wink, and after, they'd gone out to her favorite pub for dinner. 

And that night, tangled up in the sheets, her leg thrown between his and his left arm asleep beneath her, Marcus stared up at the ceiling, listening to the sound of her even breathing.

She stayed. 

_She stayed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter should be up shortly- hopefully in a day or so. 
> 
> Many, many thanks to those who left reviews!


	16. Chapter 16

_Dear Angelina,_

_Finally found a flat with less mice than furniture. I'll have you and Alicia round for tea just as soon as the exterminator's gone through...again. (Wish I was kidding!) I'll see you and the others Thursday night, the usual place. Don't worry, nothing's wrong. I've just been busy._

_Love from,  
Katie_

 

Before her father died, Katie had grown up in a warm and loving household, where showing affection was as natural as breathing. Spontaneous dancing and hugs were common, and the backyard was a place for big cook outs and poorly played and officiated games of cricket. Her parents door was usually locket Sunday afternoons, her mother's giggles and sighs echoing behind it. Katie remembered walking quickly by the door, rolling her eyes and smiling, but on the whole, it was a reassuring reminder that the foundations of her loving family remained solid. 

After her father had died, the house that was once filled with laughter and light was as cold and silent as a coffin. Katie's relationship with her mother became awkward to the point of avoidance, and whatever life wisdom Moira Bell had to impart to her daughter was lost in the long, strained silences that stretched between them. What little Katie had learned about the world of romance was limited to inter-house gossip, her own existing understanding of the concept (locked doors on Sundays, fresh flowers in the kitchen, and her father twirling her laughing mother in the kitchen). There was also a very uncomfortable afternoon spent with McGonagall and the rest of the girls of her year, after which no one wanted to look at each other for awhile. What gaps remained after that brief education were filled in by older friends like Angela and Alicia, and Katie's own tentative forays into the unknown. Being with Marcus, Katie had come to realize that the reality of romance was much, much different than the world she'd held in her head, and that sex with Marcus was far more enjoyable than any fantasy.

Although Katie had relatively little experience in the world of romance, between herself and Marcus, she had far more experience in the realm of relationships. What Marcus understood about relationships was largely limited to the domain of business; giving and receiving expected gifts, selecting strong alliances and attending the right social functions, and how to have conversations without revealing virtually nothing of substance about yourself. He had never had much in the way of friendships, and relationships always seemed a brand of madness that belonged to other people. The boys in Marcus's house were cordial to him because of his last name, and the ones that weren't, learned to be cordial quickly. Arles Zambini had served as a useful example in this respect, when, after calling Marcus 'Troll Face', Marcus had promptly relieved the eldest Zambini of three of his permanent teeth that had to be charmed back in. Even Terence and Adrian were the result of play groups fostered by mothers when they were still in nappies, all forged in the crucible of beneficial alliances. 

Despite his lack of experience, the next few weeks seemed to pass in a kind of dream- the best dream Marcus could ever remember having. They spent mornings running drills before Marcus headed off to his afternoon practices. Often, Katie brought breakfast and they ate it on the pitch, discussing different moves or recalling memorable Quidditch matches. Or, as Katie was flat-hunting, her latest disaster in flat-viewing. “There were more rats than pieces of furniture in the last one, honestly...” She'd finally settled on a small, cramped flat in Godric's Hollow, which Marcus had voiced was more of a closet than a habitable space, but Katie had stubbornly declared it “quaint.” 

After the second week, Marcus had made Katie her own portkey to his flat, and she more often than not met him there after his Falcon's practice with a hot meal waiting. There was nothing like walking through the door and having someone already there, a roast in the oven or a thick stew with homemade bread on the table. It was...Marcus had nothing to compare it to, but he liked it. Very much.

Weekends were often spent in Muggle London, with Katie introducing him to parks, museums, and her favorite restaurants. Neither mentioned the need for discretion- it was implied. Katie seemed in no hurry to expose Marcus to her friends, and Marcus wanted her to meet his father never. They did not discuss the Order, or the unpleasant news often left out of the Prophet. It all seemed part of a different world.

And so Katie hid them away in the muggle world, and Marcus ferreted her away in his flat. Some days they didn't leave the bedroom at all. 

But not today. Today, Katie was determined to take him out, and after a very satisfying morning in bed, Marcus allowed himself to be dragged outdoors with only a token resistance.

“I can't believe you've never had it before now,” said Katie, leaning up against one of the great stone pillars of St. Paul's. “It's criminal, really.” 

Katie seemed to have made it her new hobby to find out all she could about him- how old he was when he rode his first broomstick (three), what his favorite food was (pot roast), and where he was ticklish (behind the knee, she'd discovered during a very nice morning spent in bed). This was, he supposed, less an interrogation than what normal relationships consisted of- something called 'getting to know one another'.

When Katie found out Marcus had never had fish and chips (not exactly a staple of the well-to-do wizard families), she'd hauled him off to a place called Covent Garden for the afternoon. They'd made a stop for take away and then Katie had dragged him to hunker down between the looming stone pillars of an old church to eat them. 

It was, Katie explained between bites, an old weekend haunt of her and her father's. While her mother had gone shopping, (Morganna had long ago given up on Katie and shopping, though she later found Kiran to be an enthusiastic partner), Jack Bell had always taken Katie for fish and chips, then spent the afternoon people watching with his daughter in the plaza.

“People watching,” repeated Marcus, swallowing a large mouthful of hot, fried fish. 

“It's simple. You sit and watch the street performers, the passing traffic, the old couples holding hands- once, we even saw a man propose,” said Katie, smiling. “It's like bird watching, only with more variety. And you can make up backgrounds to go with them.”

Marcus rolled his eyes and dug into the chips. Also not bad.

“See that couple over there? They've been married for fifty-five years. Five kids together, sixteen grand kids, 8 great-grand kids, and he still calls her by her childhood nickname when they're alone.”

Marcus followed Katie's gaze to an old couple holding hands, smiling at some private joke as they made their way down the walk towards them. The man was carrying their bags. 

“You're absolutely mental, you know that.” Marcus told her.

“I am not! It's fun! Dad always said you could tell a lot about a person, watching them when they think no one's looking. Without their walls up. It was like, how did he put it? Seeing a thousand little worlds all turning without you. Relaxing. Like a fish tank with people in it.”

“Yup. Mental.” repeated Marcus.

“Or, look, that woman,” said Katie, deliberately oblivious to Marcus's contempt for her sport. “She's only just found out she's pregnant. It's her first one.” A young woman was looking at some scarves, one hand resting gently on her small swell of a belly. 

“Indigestion.” Marcus told her, and Katie playfully punched him in the shoulder.

“You're no fun!”

laughed Katie. Marcus reached over, took her wrist, and sucked a smear of vinegar and salt off her thumb. She blushed, withdrawing her hand and busying herself with her chips.

“Fine, then. I'll have a go.” Having polished off his lunch, Marcus wiped his greasy hands on his denims. Another bad habit learned from Katie, who didn't seem to believe in the general necessity of napkins. “There's a girl. Nineteen, about.”

Katie's eyes searched the crowd. “You've got to be more specific. There's about a dozen.” 

“Blue vest, shell bracelets. Hazel eyes.” 

Katie's eyes narrowed as she cottoned on.

“Oh yeah? Is she pretty?”

“Nah.”

Katie swatted him. “Hey!”

“She's fucking gorgeous,” he said, grinning down at her.

She blushed and gave him one of those rare, warm smiles in return, the kind that reached her eyes and brought out the amber flecks embedded in the green. 

Katie had a naturally happy nature- she smiled and laughed often, but she seemed to save those deep, soft, in-her-bones-happy smiles for rare occasions- occasions he liked to think revolved mostly (only) around him.

Marcus slid his hand along her jawline, threading his fingers into her hair. 

“Oh, really.” she said. 

“Yeah, really.” 

“Sweet talker,” she whispered, her eyes narrowed playfully.

He kissed her, slowly, as if they had all the time in the world, tonguing the edge of her bottom lip and slipping his hand through her hair to cup the back of her neck as she opened her mouth. Her lips were warm, salty from the fish, and as she swept her tongue across his lip, he inhaled sharply through his nose, catching a whiff of her lavender shampoo. He bit at her bottom lip, pushing her gently back at the stairs to get a better angle-

Too soon, however, Katie was pulling away, her cheeks pink as she turned her head. It took a moment for reality to fade back in, because in all honesty she turned his brains to shit at times like these, but Marcus could see they'd caught the glances of several passersby. Some looked mildly disapproving. The old couple, however, was smiling at them- the old man actually gave Marcus a wink.

Katie was shaking her head. “We're supposed to _watch_ the human spectacle, not become one,” she said. “Come on, I'll take you to the gelatoria. My treat.”

Marcus, having gotten weary of Katie paying for all of their muggle excursions, had finally gone to Gringotts and had some of his money exchanged for the strange, varied Muggle money Katie used, and now usually insisted on paying. He could have bought her whatever she wanted a hundred times over, that didn't seem to be the point. 

No Pureblood witch he knew would have concerned herself with Marcus paying for anything- in fact, in his circle, it was expected. The idea of someone wanting to buy gifts for him, to treat _him_ to new experiences, was unprecedented.

...He liked it.

“Have you ever had it?”

“What?”

“Gelato.”

“Yeah. They've got them in Italy,” said Marcus, helping her up.

“When were you there?” asked Katie.

“Our vacation house was in Lampedusa.”

“Oh right, that was in that article: Marcus Flint: Slytherin Stud.” She laughed.

Marcus rolled his eyes. Fucking Witch Weekly. He was still getting fan mail...some with pictures.

He wasn't sure why he mentioned his family's old vacation home. It was his mother's- and like everything else in her life, it had been boarded up and forgotten after her 'illness'. Despite what he'd said in the interview, he hadn't actually been there in years. It just seemed like the sort of shit a professional Quidditch player was supposed to say- the kind of thing they were supposed to have.

“I've heard it's a beautiful place, Lampedusa- right by the ocean,” said Katie. 

“It is.” 

So he told her about it. About the beautiful old house with its high wood beams and stone floors, perched at the edge on the craggy cliffs. About the blue-green ocean, bright and warm as bathwater, the blinding white sand and the cool, salty breezes that filtered through the house at night when you left the windows open. About the people that lay like strips of bacon out on the sand, some of the ladies topless, some of the blokes bottomless. His mother had forbidden him to go on the beach without her to cover his eyes, but he'd snuck out a couple of times to watch the people roasting like rotisserie chickens on beach blankets, eat the food off the street carts, and look for shells. He'd taken his sister with him, who he reasoned was too young to understand about nakedness.

With his mother's death, the house had passed to Vesta Flint's offspring- to Marcus. He hadn't been back to the house since her illness, and couldn't imagine the state of the place. He'd asked Maisey to mind the estate, and put it out of his mind.

_Walking along the warm sand, barefoot, the ocean lapping at his ankles. Hot sun on his bare shoulders. Mother was indoors, napping- the day was theirs, and he was determined she should see the bird nests on the cliff and build a sandcastle as big as she was. They'd built one yesterday- so far, she was not very helpful in the construction, though she very much enjoyed the part that called for its dismantling._

_“Marca!” Flora was reaching up to him, her little hand clasping and unclasping. “Marca, hand!”_

_He reached down and engulfed her little hand in his, hunching over to accommodate her much shorter height as they walked. Flora toddled along, still somewhat unsteady, relying on her brother to correct any broad errors in her steps. After awhile, he snatched up her other hand and swung her unexpectedly high into the air. She shrieked with delight, her small legs kicking, trying to get even higher. She really was fearless- he couldn't wait until she was steady enough to have her first broom. She was going to be a terror- a Chaser, definitely._

_“Again!” she demanded bossily._

_“Oh yeah? What do you say, your highness?” asked Marcus, determined to teach her some manners. She already got away with murder half the time._

_She looked up at him, wide blue eyes and a big grin on her face. “Peeeeeeeeeeessseee?” she drawled, then squealed when he grinned swung her again-_

“Marcus?”

He blinked. Katie was staring at him. “...what?”

“What flavor do you want?”

He hadn't been looking at the board. “You order.”

Aside from Katie's habit of interrogating him (which, he supposed, to normal people, was called 'having conversations'), her other hobby seemed to be to introduce him to the Muggle world, whether he liked it or not. In reality, after being told so much about Muggles and their filthy, backwards little world as a child, he was surprised and not surprised to find it quite different than what his father had told him.

Katie was like a fish in water in London. She seemed to know Victoria's Station and the Underground like the back of her hand, and found his mistrust of subways almost comical (to Marcus, it seemed like being in the belly of a giant, rattling steel snake.) 

Katie showed him her favorite haunts, took him for walks along the paths carved through the bustling city (he was still getting used to cars), and they spent long hours having pints at Katie's favorite pub, a small hole in the wall place overlooking a river whose name eluded him, talking. 

Just...talking. Marcus couldn't remember the last time he'd had a real conversation with anyone besides Terence and Adrian. 

Katie told funny stories of her brothers, and her father, and all the trouble she'd gotten into with her Gryffindor friends at school. Katie was a good story teller- expressive and animated, and mostly, Marcus just listened, though as time passed, he found himself slowly telling stories of his own. Katie particularly liked the story of Adrian getting his tongue stuck to a very frozen statue of of Salazar Slytherin, in a very delicate place, on a dare. It was easy, talking to Katie. Some people just waited for their turn to talk- Katie actually listened.

After Katie paid, they took the gelatos in biscuit cones and walked along the street, their fingers laced loosely together. Hand-holding was new to Marcus, too- well, mostly new, if you didn't cound little sisters. It was Katie who initiated at first, of course, first at the market and then after Quidditch practice one day as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Marcus had glanced over at her, but Katie was staring straight ahead, a certain set in her jaw that told him she was taking a chance and expected him to snatch his hand back and make some stupid comment, as he had almost certainly just done on impulse. 

Instead, Marcus had looked down at their laced fingers, wondering how something so juvenile, so simple, could feel so stupidly reassuring. Since then, he found himself grabbing for her hand as much as she reached for his, wrapping his fingers around hers and feeling almost as if he could anchor her to him with the gesture.

_Stupid._

Katie had gotten milk cream with almond croccante and had ordered Marcus a cinnamon cream with candied orange, which he polished off in no time. Muggles might invent mental things like unicycles, he thought, but they definitely knew about food. His cinnamon cream had been good, but hers was better. With his height advantage, he was able to bend over and steal bites of her dessert, though she eventually took to trying to hold it out of his reach, frowning at him. 

When that didn't work, she responded to by eating faster, and finally, smashing the cone in his face when he leaned over, painting his nose with cold almond croccante. 

He'd jerked back, scowling at her, and she'd laughed, giving him a messy kiss that smeared both their lips with a sticky, sweet coating, her tongue cold and sweet as she ran it across his lips, and he decided he didn't much care about having ice cream on his face.

They spent the afternoon in the square. There was plenty to look at- street magicians, stilt-walkers, and some crazy muggle who called himself the Human Volcano. Marcus had to shake his head at some of the acts. They might not have real magic, but muggles made a good show of it all the same.

As evening dawned, they made their way back to the alley where they'd disapparate back to her flat. Strange, spending a string of days with someone, instead of a single night. He liked having her there in the morning, eating breakfast together and making plans for the day. He liked laying around in bed and watching her get dressed for the day. He liked drinking coffees out on her small deck with her feet propped up on his lap as they shared the paper. With Katie, everything was new, everything was uncharted territory, but he was learning.

_He was learning quickly._

Katie wound her arm around his and leaned up against him, swinging the shopping bags as they walked. He'd bought her a few things throughout the day, despite her protests. To Marcus, it was simple; Katie was beautiful, and she should have beautiful things. Marcus had discovered very early that it was quite fun to buy her gifts, and had hired what muggles apparently called a personal shopper, a very efficient young woman that had no trouble finding what he wanted in exactly the right sizes. Muggle clothing looked good on Katie, and fit far more snugly than most wizarding fashions, which he appreciated. The assistant had been valuable in explain about things like Muggle sizes and trends- now, Marcus often chose to select things himself.

So far, he'd bought her several pieces of jewelry, some scarves and shoes, and to Katie's great surprise and delight, a fitted boucle biker jacket that she'd been admiring in a shop window every time they passed, but had refused to consider because of its cost, saying she was waiting for something called a 'sale'. Marcus had gone in and bought the jacket the next day. Katie wanted so little- if she wanted anything at all, Marcus was determined she should have it.

She wore the jacket every time they went flying together. He liked seeing it on her- it was a kind of confirmation that she was his, that they were together. 

Gifts in the pureblood world were perfunctory- expected. Giving Katie gifts was fun because they were never expected, always appreciated, and strangely, consistently reciprocated.

“Thank you,” she said, almost too quietly for him to hear.

“For what?” he asked. 

She looked up at him, shrugging a little. “For today," she said. "It was a nice day, wasn't it?"

He leaned down and kissed her, pulling her up against him so he lifted her off her feet.

“Thank you.” he said, when the finally broke apart and he set her down.

She laughed. “For what?”

_For everything. For being you._

**For teaching me.**

In lieu of an answer, he took her hand and disappeared back to her flat, where they picked up immediately where they'd left off. Marcus immediately tripped over the cat and they collapsed against the door, Katie's giggles muffled by his shoulder. He trailed his hand underneath her shirt and kissed her again, grinding his hips against hers as he skimmed his hand up her side, brushing the edge of her breast. 

Katie ducked out from beneath him suddenly, grinning. She took her wand from her back pocket and gave a quick wave at the fireplace, which immediately produced a warm, crackling fire.

“Come on.”

“Come where?” He asked, making a grab for her and missing.

"Come here." Katie hooked her fingers in his waistband, leading him into the living room hips first. 

Marcus reached over and tugged the bottom of her jumper up, and she obligingly lifted her arms to accommodate him as he pulled it the rest of the way over her head, tossing it across the room. Her bra went next, the same way as the jumper. Katie kicked out of her jeans and stumbled, laughing, and Marcus used that momentum to push her into the nearest chair, kneeling in front of her as he peeled off his jumper and tossed it behind him. 

He pulled down her knickers in one swift jerk, tossing them behind him, then ran his hands along the inside of her thighs, spreading her legs. 

“Marcus-” cheeks flushed, she tried to close her legs, still a little embarrassed, but he simply leaned over and ran his tongue the length of her, pressing his thumb hard onto her clitoris. 

“Marcus!” she gasped again, but the sound was entirely different this time, devoid of embarassment, and when he did it again, her entire body bowed back, chin up, throat exposed, breasts arched as she brought her arms up and gripped the top of the chair, and he wanted to remember her like this, passionate, careless, his-

Past embarrassment, she reached down to spread herself for him, and fuck, it was hot, she was hot- 

-she was everything-

She was close now, her breath coming faster, and he wanted to see her shatter-

“Marcus,” she panted. “No, I want...want you-”

He quickly pulled back, allowing her to sit up and pull down his pants, letting her push him back onto the rug in front of the fireplace. He watched as she straddled him, her body seized in one longer shiver as she eased down against him. She moaned, and he sat up and covered her mouth with his, his hand in her hair.

Sitting up together this way, he felt deeper than he'd been before, his hands on her hips, her hands splayed across his back, the firelight flickering across her skin.

It was nothing like the first time in the rain- it was slow, unhurried, and he was not consumed by the desire to rush to completion as if she were a dream about to disappear. When she froze, gasping, he followed her over, pulling her down into an open-mouthed kiss as he came inside her. 

Later, as she stretched out in front of the fire, dozing, he lay awake and stared into the flames. Light from the fire set her face alight in a soft , flickering glow. 

_No one...no one had ever said they wanted him before._

Not before Katie.

He shifted next to her, and she cracked an eye open, turning to face him. “Stay,” she murmured, putting her hand over arm, sliding it down to rest over her heart.

No one had ever said that, either, before Katie.

….and so he did, settling back down against her side. He'd been getting up to grab a blanket to drape over them, but fit together like this, in front of the fire, he found they were warm enough.

“It sounds like a lovely place,” she said, yawning.

“What does?”

“Your mother's place in Lampedusa. Like a little castle by the sea.”

“So let's go,” said Marcus impulsively.

It was a reckless move. The house was in Marcus's name, yes, but there could be no telling what Atticus Flint had done with the property, or which investments of Marcus's he chose to take stock of...or keep an eye on... 

Katie blinked. “I didn't mean-”

“Why not? I'm off from practice the next two days. We'll just go for a day.” 

“But-” Order business, no doubt, or some other commitment from a world Marcus wanted to ignore existed at all.

“Do you trust me?”

That stopped her. She rolled onto her back. Looked at him a moment. “Well, yes, but-”

_She trusted him._

“Then we'll go.” It was impulsive- stupid, but-

Time could stop for a day, couldn't it?

Even then he knew how foolish it was to hope.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Strong allusions to character death.

_Marcus,_

_Come to the manor. We have business to discuss._

 

…..  
….  
…  
..  
.

It was amazing. No matter how old he was, Marcus still felt his stomach shrivel to the size of a raisin when summoned by his father. He could remember as a child taking slow, half-steps towards the far end of the mansion, trying to put off the encounter as long as possible. 

His strides were much longer now, (unfortunately), and the grand iron doors of Flint manor came much sooner than he would have preferred. As he stepped inside, Marcus caught his reflection in one of the many gilded mirrors in the main hall and he reminded himself that he was no longer that same child; he was broad shouldered, with the height and muscle of a grown man.

...and yet, this place never failed to make him feel like a scared little boy.

His father's house elf, Grimlis, begrudgingly took Marcus's coat and shuffled off, muttering under his breath words that Marcus was fairly certain were not endearments. The house elf had always regarded Marcus in much the way his father did- as a complete waste of careful breeding.

Marcus hesitated in the foyer, then turned in the opposite direction of the study. His father could wait.

Maybe it was only wizard houses, but old mansions seemed to have memory seeped deep into the wood. Whispers seemed follow him down the hall.

_Marcus....welcome home....welcome home..._

The room was at the very end of the hall. Marcus waited at the door for a moment, his hand resting on the knob. 

_“Marca!”_

So much time had passed, and yet...the body he'd grown into, all the time that had lengthened bone and broadened his shoulders, and in this room he was still that little boy underneath, the memory of her small voice still an icepick in his heart as his fingers tightened around the doorknob.

Closing his eyes, he twisted the handle and walked in.

The room was unchanged by time. Still covered in a film of dust, the heavy ruby chintz curtains blocking the light outside. 

For a moment, he saw his mother hanging there, her eyes staring at the empty crib-

No. She was free of this place now. They were both free.

Marcus blinked the memory away. 

The crib was at the back of the room, the bars of the bed laced with spiderwebs. Maisy and Grimlis would have cleaned the room, if they were permitted, but his mother had forbade anyone from touching anything. Nothing was to be moved, or touched, or taken- his sister's room would remain exactly the same, forever frozen in time.

Marcus approached the crib slowly, looking down at the same silk pink sheets that puddled on the small mattress.

_Approaching the crib, his head already higher than the top, grabbing the bars and leaning in. She was curled up like a little caterpillar beneath the thick pink duvet, her breath heavy with sleep. She had their mother's coloring- soft curls and rosy cheeks. She looked like a little empress in her bower of silk._

_“Floooorrr-rrrraaaa-” His normally deep, gruff voice deliberately lightened into an almost sing-song pitch. “Flora, wake up.”_

_His sister opened her eyes and smiled sleepily at the sight of her big brother, unafraid of the hulking boy towering over her crib. He was already big for his age, and, combined with his unfortunate teeth, most of the other children avoided him on sight._

_But not his sister._

_She spread her tiny arms, waiting to be picked up. Flora loved to be held, and had learned long ago that her big brother was a pushover in this regard. Marcus had been forced to learn to do most things one-handed as a result._

_Lifting her small body easily from the crib, his sister's arms curled around his neck, gripping tightly. Flora sleepily rested her cheek on his shoulder as he carried her into the hall, her small hand patting his shoulder-_

_“Marca,” she said sleepily. "Marca, Marca, Marca...."_

_Marcus grinned._

Marcus blinked again, his eyes burning, and his sister was gone.

They were both gone, he supposed- the little girl, and the little boy that had lived while she did. 

And for a long time, Marcus had accepted that everything beautiful in his world was gone, too. He had become the essence of his father's line- he'd bullied and cheated his way through school, through Quidditch, uncaring, unfeeling, destined to become every inch the man his father wanted him to be-

-until another little girl had pushed her way in.

Marcus turned and walked down to his father's study, the hands that had rested so gently on the dusty crib now balled into fists.

“The hell have you been, boy?” said the old man, turning from the fireplace. Despite his years, Atticus Flint remained broad in the shoulders, with a short, neatly trimmed beard and eyes as dark as pitch blend. “You get lost?”

“Saying goodbye to old ghosts,” muttered Marcus, leaning against the doorway.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Come,” said Atticus, and gestured to the dining room proper, where two elaborate settings had been laid out on either end of the ridiculously long table. 

Wearing a threadbare old pillowcase, Grimlis ladled out lamb stew from a steaming tureen and poured mulled wine into silver goblets. Marcus ignored the old house elf and stared down the length of the table at his father, waiting for the reason he'd been summoned.

“Now, I can't say I ever approved of Quidditch,” said the Senior Flint, whipping his napkin into his lap. “But you seem to not be pissing it up too badly.”

Marcus said nothing. He waited, narrowing his eyes.

Atticus was impervious to his son's suspicious gaze. “Pygmus Greengrass came by the manor yesterday, wanted to discuss cementing a permanent alliance between our families. About time, I say. Codger always took a crow's age to figure out what was best for him and his. I don't have to say that the merger would be of great benefit to our businesses. Coincidentally, his daughter is agreeable.”

_Of course Acantha was agreeable. Blaise Zabini was already spoken for- an alliance with the youngest Bullstrode was announced last month. The Flints were the largest Gringott's vault currently on the market, aside from the Malfoys, whose recent fall from grace had made them a less palatable option._

“You may make the arrangements yourself in the off season. Pygmus's wife will arrange for an announcement in the society section after things have been made official, and I'll have Maisey fetch your grandmother's ring from the vault. I don't give a damn how or when you do it, just get it done, and try not to muck it up.”

“And if I refuse?” asked Marcus, calmly laying his napkin in his lap.

Atticus Flint blinked, and Marcus knew he had not expected or anticipated resistance.

“Why would you? Greengrass is as fine a choice as any. Good bones, good blood. Fertility's well-documented, though hopefully she'll be able to produce a male heir, unlike the mother.”

Fertility certainly wasn't a problem for Pygmus or his wife- the Greengrass brood was a line of plentiful, beautiful, smart and sharp-tongued girls with good bone structure and even better business sense. There was no male heir, much to Pygmus's chagrin, but his daughters had practically made it a business of marrying well, securing future lines like some fantastically intricate, manipulative tapestry.

His father's dark eyes were fixed on him now. “Ah, yes. What was her name? Bell, wasn't it?”

Marcus's heart plummeted like stone into his guts. 

A small spread across the old man's face, and Marcus knew his expression had faltered. 

“Did you think I was ignorant of what went on at that old school of yours, boy? What goes on at your little flat? Walls have ears, and eyes, and pocketbooks.” said Atticus, slamming down his spoon. “Merlin, you're as bloody stupid as your mother.”

“I don't know what the fuck you're talking about,” said Marcus, turning his gaze into the dining room fireplace. But the lapse had cost him.

Atticus's dark eyes narrowed. “You'll remember who you're speaking to, boy.”

“Sorry. I don't know what the fuck you're talking about, _Father_ ,” quipped Marcus.

Blinding pain in his temple, and Marcus's head jerked to the side- Atticus lowered the wand he'd produced out of nowhere, a sneer on his brutish face. 

“The Yule Ball, idiot, the training grounds, those free little lessons you're so fond of giving. Nights at your flat. Days in Mudblood London. Wrack your brains. Did you think I wouldn't find out? Did you think you were being clever, ferreting your little whore away from me?” 

Marcus's hands balled into fists at his side.

Atticus curled his lip. “You always did like dogs. Liked how they'd follow you around, how easy they were to train, how willing, how earnest with their affections. Let me tell you now, son, and save you the trouble. All bitches are the same. They'll all follow you, long as you've got something they want. One's as good as the next.”

Marcus didn't answer, still staring into the fire, his right eye throbbing from the stinging hex.

“Your indiscretion with this little girl-”

“She's eighteen,” snapped Marcus, before he could stop himself.

“She's a half-blood, is what she is, and a muggle-lover to boot,” spat his father. “She may as well be a stray dog in the world that's coming.”

“Her mother-”

His father chuckled. “Trying to use Morganna's pedigree on me? You _are_ far gone, aren't you? No respectable house will acknowledge her mother, pure-blood or not, now that she's been sullied by that muggle. That woman will be lucky to be licking Yaxley's boots when this is all finished.”

Marcus ground his teeth together. “It's none of-”

Atticus narrowed his eyes. “-my business? Did you actually think you could do what you wanted, whenever you wanted? Did you think you were living a life that was _yours_ , boy?” Atticus laughed.

“When you are married, what mistresses you keep are your own business, and no wife worth her breeding will trouble you for it. Until then, it's my business. Like it or not, you're the only heir of the Flint fortune, and you'll make a good marriage if I have to drag you dick first into it. After you've done your duty to this family, you can keep as many pets as you like.”

“She's not a pet,” snarled Marcus, before he could stop himself. 

He'd made this mistake as a child- revealing he cared for something, that something was important, that it propped up some corner of his small, sad little world, and always, _always_ , his father wielded it against him like a weapon. Burned books. Brooms snapped over his father's knee. A dead baby bird. A dead dog. Because love was a sword you fell on. Because caring made you weak. And no son of Atticus Flint was going to be weak, and if Atticus had to forge him in pain and fire, well, that was a small price to pray for the Flint legacy.

Atticus sighed. “Despite my best efforts, you're your mother's son, through and through. Not an ounce of sense in that woman's fool head, either. Not a single idea of her duty to the Flint name-”

Marcus slammed down his own spoon, splattering soup across the pristine white tablecloth. “I don't know, I'd say Mother gave more than anyone, wouldn't you, Father?”

And the memory resurfaced, unwanted, unbidden, but just as fresh, just as sharp, trapped in this house with all these fucking ghosts-

_He'd been told to stay away from the west wing, but he could hear Flora crying._

_It was late, and the candles lit down the hallway were burned down to stubs or gutted out. The pale light at the end of the hall was the only real source of light, and Marcus followed it, still half-asleep._

_Voices spilled out from within, some hushed, others raised. And Flora's cries, which were building in intensity. It was what had woken him._

_Marcus could see the edge of the altar, where his sister lay, the cold obsidian stone that glowed in the moonlight. Flora was not laughing now, she was screaming, her chubby cheeks mottled and red, small chest heaving, and his mother was screaming, too, two masked Death Eaters holding her arms as her black hood dropped from her head, her beautiful face streaked with tears, eyes wild-_

_“Flora.” Marcus started forward. She wanted to be held, and she'd stop crying straight away. He'd take her off to bed, she was only tired, he'd sing her favorite song and she'd fall right asleep-_

_“It is an honor,” his father was saying, his expression blank beneath the hood. “An honor to make this sacrifice for the return of the Dark Lord-”_

_His mother's screams were rising in pitch, and they were holding Flora down, holding her little arms down on the cold obsidian stone and then the knife came, and with it, the terrible understanding of what was about to happen-_

_Rushing forward, yelling, Marcus hit at the hooded man with the knife, pounding his fists into the man with enough force to drive him back, Marcus's knuckles coming away bloody. He made a lunge for Flora, but robed arms grabbed him and yanked him back before he could reach the altar._

_Flora was looking at him now, she'd seen him and stopped screaming at the sight of her big brother, who was surely there to pick her up and take her out of the room. Tears were still running down her mottled face, and Marcus bit one of the hands holding him as he kicked, tasting blood and lunging forward again-_

_“Flora!”_

_She reached for him, reached out her arms for him to take her as she had so many times before-_

_Something hit him hard in the back of the head and his limbs failed him, vision fading to black as the screaming grew louder-_

“It was...a necessary sacrifice.”

“You can't even say her name. Even now, after everything,” spat Marcus, standing now, his soup bowl in pieces on the floor. “She was a fucking person, not a tool!”

_Flora, reaching for him-_

**“She was my sister! She was my sister!** ” 

He was standing, screaming with someone else's voice now, a pained, wracked sound that echoed off the house's long and empty halls.

Silence then, save for the sound of Marcus's heavy breathing. Tears were running down his face, and furious, he wiped them away.

His father dashed away Marcus's words like a persistent insect with a swipe of his hand. “Your mother forgot her place. And so do you.”

“And where's that, under your fucking heel?” snarled Marcus. “As cattle? As currency for you to spend? Anything for the Flint name, right? Anything at all.”

Atticus was standing now, too. “Are you so naive that you think the future can be attained without sacrifice? Do you think our family would have lasted the war were it not for the sacrifices I made, the people I appeased, the foundations I laid for the return of the dark lord?”

Marcus looked away, still breathing hard.

“The past is done. There is no retrieving it. We are talking about the future of the Flint bloodline. Our name. Or legacy. We can build it, together, Marcus, on the shoulders of this new dynasty that's coming. We can make it great again. If not, then all that sacrifice was for nothing. Then your sister died for nothing.”

Marcus stared across the table at his father, and the part of him that was his father's son recognized the truth in his words. As a boy, Marcus had sat beside his father in his study, practicing his writing, stamping the Flint seal into important documents, parroting his father's beliefs. Years ago, he would have given his arm to have his father say his first name, to talk about a future together.

Now his stomach twisted at the thought, sick at it. It was no longer just building a future with the old, tired ways of thinking. It was now building an empire on his mother's grave. His sister's bones...the innocent blood still staining that stone altar.

Still, even knowing this, the half of him that was his father's son hesitated. 

Marcus knew he was as capable and as calculating as the man that had sired him, and knowing it had always given him some sick measure of security. It meant he was capable of survival. It was in his blood. Despite his father's doubts about his capability, Marcus knew he could follow in the Flint footsteps with the same bloody shoes his father had and carve an empire with wealth and sheer force of will. He could marry a woman he didn't love and create a legacy based on traditions inspired by obstinate old men obsessed with some foolish, childish dream of purity and entitlement. 

And he, like his mother, could look out at the world from the windows of this beautiful old mansion, and he would never want for wealth, or prestige, or comfort. He wouldn't have to think, to risk, to wonder. 

He would barely have to hurt.

But if it was a life without asperity, it was also a life without affection, without laughter...and without hope. 

It was a life without _her._

Without Katie.

And for the first time, when he looked at his father, he did not see the head of the Flint family, a powerful man worthy of the fear that Marcus had felt since he was old enough to remember. He saw a man frozen in time by fear, incapable of change. Terrified of it.

_But, at the end of the day, was he any better? Wasn't he just as afraid as his father, if for different reasons?_

“Think,” said his father. “Think of what would happen to her in our world, if nothing else.”

Marcus stared hard into the roaring fire, and for a minute he could almost see Katie on that stone altar, reaching for him- 

“Be reasonable, for once in your life. You could never protect her. Would she appreciate the cage you'd have to build to keep her safe? Of course not. She would hate you for it a little more every day. Look at your mother. Look what became of her. And this little girl, this half-breed you've convinced yourself is the answer, she's less suited for this life than your mother was. You know it. You've always known it. She could never live in our world.”

_He did. Katie had already chosen her side in the war that was coming, and it was almost surely the losing side. She had put her hopes in a boy that hadn't been seen in months, and had given her allegiance to a group whose numbers dwindled every day. It was not hard to see which side would triumph. Provided he could protect Katie in the world that was left after the war, she'd still die by degrees, day by day until there was nothing but a shriveled shell that still wore her face._

Atticus Flint looked at his sole heir and sighed, the hard, brutal lines of his face heavy with what might have been exhaustion. There might have even been regret, though it was so buried beneath self-preservation and bitterness that it was only a glimmer, then quickly gone. 

“Think about what I've said, boy. You're dismissed.”


	18. Chapter 18

Marcus,

I'll have to pass on our lunch this week. Big doings at the Ministry...obviously, can't say more. Things are changing fast, here. I've seen Umbridge in the halls more than I'd care to count. I'll owl you about next week. 

-Terrence

p.s. Watch your ass. And hers.

.....  
....  
...  
..  
.

 

Parties might have been in short supply in the current climate in other houses, but not in the most esteemed House of Flint. Truth be told, even the Flint financial empire was feeling the sting of losing over half its customers to death, Azkaban, or Snatchers, but there were appearances to maintain. Fortunately, the Flint business was a many-headed dragon- his father had investments in several different businesses, and while many were suffering, there were a few, like security trolls, curse-proof broom enchantments, and unbreakable locks, that were flourishing.

Crystal-cut glasses glimmered in the lights of flickering chandeliers. Roasts with all the trimmings steamed on silver platters. Wine chilled on carved ice slabs in crystal decanters, and thick slices of rich chocolate cake were set with silver filigreed forks next to steaming pots of black coffee.

The usual Pure-blood circles were in attendance- and included in them, of course, came a particular group of people Marcus would like to have avoided forever. 

Among them, the Lestranges.

Coffee and pastries were being served by Maisey in the parlor, while Grimlis served mulled wine in the receiving room. Guests milled, drank, conversed. There might not be a war at all, for all the festivity. 

Narcissa Malfoy was standing next to the buffet table, staring down at her goblet of wine. Her white mink wrap was slightly off-kilter and her normally pretty face was pinched with worry; deep, dark circles rimmed her eyes. In many respects, she reminded Marcus of his own mother, the way she had looked after the ritual, anyway. 

Narcissa Malfoy, like his mother, was a high born woman that had grown up blissfully ignorant of the price of her comfortable life. Had Voldemort not reached in and grasped at the things that were most precious to them, Marcus doubted either Vesta or Narcissa would have ever had cause to question the course or the cost of their lives. It was with both pity and a little revulsion that he passed her at the table. 

Frankly, he was happy that Narcissa's son was nowhere to be seen. After Draco's sloppy work at the Leaky Cauldron and the resulting disaster to Katie with the cursed necklace, Marcus's general impulse was to wring the youngest Malfoy's neck on sight.

Maisey and Grimlis had outdone themselves- Marcus reckoned there was more food sprawled across the table than any army could eat. Roast turkeys, baked hams, bowls of whipped and buttered potatoes, and he had a stomach for none of it.

From across the room, Bellatrix Lestrange smiled at him, and he was reminded of a wolf at the edges of an elk herd. 

_Not looking for company. Looking for limps._

Marcus quickly looked away. He had been hovering around the fringes of the gathering for the last hour, wondering how long he could avoid speaking to anyone and when he could duck out without being noticed. 

That question was apparently about to be answered...in the most unpleasant of ways possible.

Bellatrix sauntered over, lithe body, cunning smile- all the beauty of a black widow at home on her web.

“Why, if it isn't little Marcus Flint, allllllll grown up,” she purred, leaning her hip against the table side, her eyes roving over him. 

“Bellatrix.” He nodded.

The witch shook her wine glass, watching the liquid swirl. “Your father has given very generously to the cause in the past, Marcus. There is...curiosity to see whether you will prove to be as free-handed.”

“I'll bet.” Marcus looked away. “Tap the family vaults, if you like.”

The Voldemort's best lieutenant flicked her dark eyes up to his. “The Dark Lord has no need of paltry galleons. He has need of loyal followers.”

“I'm a Quidditch player.” said Marcus flatly. “I don't have the keys to anything you want.”

Lestrange raised an eyebrow. “If I didn't know better, little Flint, I'd say you weren't interested in our cause.”

And though he knew it was foolish to bait her, in that moment, Marcus really didn't fucking care.

“Given the sacrifices my family has made In the past, your accusation rings a bit hollow, doesn't it? I don't have any little sisters left for you.” replied Marcus dully. “So tap the vaults.”

Lestrange's smile widened as she clapped a hand to his shoulder. Whether she was pleased with his cheek or not was impossible to say as she squeezed. 

Marcus felt a shiver climb his spine at the contact. 

“Everyone has a weakness, Flint. A little thing that makes them tip one way, or the other. Take Frank Longbotton, for example. Could take an astronomical amount of pain, that man, but you know what finally broke him? Watching wifey bite off half her tongue squirming around on the floor under the cruciatus curse. The same for Mrs. Longbottom. It was marvelous. We broke them against each other like rocks. Big, brave, _stupid_ rocks.”

Marcus's eyes fell to the wand at his belt. Lestrange's elevator might not go all the way to the top, but it definitely dropped all the way to the bottom. And he was no match for her, magically. Few were, and most of them were already dead.

“And what about you, Marcus? What snaps your tether? What would you do anything to keep?” she smiled at him. Bellatrix leaned in close, her breath warm on his neck as her nails dug into his shoulder. “Everyone has something to lose, isn't that so?”

_Katie._

Marcus stared blankly back at her.

Bellatrix withdrew, smiling. “Ah, well. Never mind. We'll see, won't we? War has a way of breaking people where they're weakest. After, some are stronger at the broken parts. And others, well. Take a good long look at the Longbottoms.”

“Be seeing you soon, widdle Marcus.” She wiggled her fingers at him as she walked away.

Marcus looked after her. Terence was right. The war would come to them all, in time, whether they welcomed it in or not. And he wouldn't be able to shield Katie, not from the worst of it. Not when it mattered. 

_The past was proof enough of that, wasn't it?_

 

…..  
….  
…  
..  
.

Marcus stood at the window, staring blankly down at the street below. People walked quickly, heads down, many of them with cloaks pulled over their heads. A child lagged behind, staring up at the window, at Marcus- what he guessed was the child's mother quickly stalked back, snatched up the child's hand, and hauled him quickly down the street.

The knock on the door startled him out of his thoughts.

And there, standing outside his flat, was the last person on earth he wanted to see. 

Katie Bell, wearing the jacket he'd given her with a pair of hip-hugging denims, her hair gathered in a sloppy knot on top of her head. Her cheeks were pink from the wind, and she was a little breathless from the stairs- the doorman knew to let her up whether he was home or not.

“Pizza delivery!” she said, grinning, holding up a box with 'Mickey's Pies' written on the top. 

“Extra sausage,” she added suggestively, cocking her hip. “Well, that doesn't work, does it? That's the bit _you'd_ say, before you took my clothes off....aaaaaand you've never seen muggle porn, have you, so this is all terribly confusing.”

Out of habit, Marcus stepped back to let her in. 

“It's a horrible premise anyway,” she continued, setting the box on his counter and unwinding the scarf from her throat. “Bloke comes and rings the doorbell, the woman answers it in her knickers, and he says, 'I've got a big delivery' for you, and then it- never mind,” she finished, flushing. “Anyway, it's good. I had them put extra peppers on your half.” 

She went into his cupboards, pulling out plates. 

Marcus watched her, feeling something heavy and sick settle in his stomach. 

Katie was chatting happily away, as was her habit. “Missed you at practice. Ran that wave drill until I couldn't lift my arms. I can't believe tryouts are only in a week, they've published the roster, and there's about sixty names altogether, which means I've got about a one in thirty chance of being signed. It isn't so bad, I suppose....are you listening?” she asked, waving her palm in front of his eyes. “Hello? Marcus? All right then?” 

He jerked his head a little, which she must taken to be an assent, because she went in search of napkins. 

He watched her lay out the napkins. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to let her continue; she'd bring him a plate, they'd sprawl on the couch together, maybe watch one of Katie's horrible muggle films or listen to the wireless, and she'd fall asleep in his lap- 

“I'm engaged.” 

Of all the things that could have tumbled out of his mouth, those would have been the last ones he would have chosen. 

“Sorry?” asked Katie, letting out a small, breathless laugh. “I thought you just said you were engaged for a moment.” She went back to the plates, doling out slices, fighting to get all the oozing cheese to land on the plate. 

“I am.” he said. 

This time, she stilled, looking up at him. “What?” 

“Acantha Greengrass. It's been...planned for a long time.” 

Her hands stilled. “...how long, exactly?” 

“Since Hogwarts.” 

“You're joking.” 

“I'm not. It's been planned since my mother was alive.” 

“So?” 

He walked to the counter. “So it's time to quit screwing around.” 

“This really isn't funny, Marcus.” She frowned at him, her hands still occupied with the plates. 

He shrugged. “Believe what you want. In a few days, you can check the papers. There'll be an announcement.” 

She set the plate she was holding down. “Marcus, that's crazy.” 

“That's how it works, in our world.” he replied. 

A long silence followed as she searched his face, and he stared back at her with the most blank expression he could manage. 

Think of her, think of what would happen if they got hold of her.... _His sister on the stone altar, holding out her arms..._

Marcus's hands balled at his sides. 

“Then...” she faltered. “What...what was all this, then?” 

“Over.” he said, with someone else's voice. Cold, distant, unfeeling...it might have been his father's. The thought made him want to throw up. 

“But...why?” she asked. “Why would you...you said you....” She gripped the counter edge, trying to anchor herself. 

“It was fun for awhile,” replied Marcus, balling his hands into fists. “But I'm getting bored, aren't you?” 

Katie's eyes snapped up to his. “I don't believe you,” she said, her voice strong if a little wobbly. “Marcus, whatever your father says, this is _your_ life. You can make your own choices. You know that, don't you? These past months, you were happy, weren't you? We were happy...” 

He couldn't look at her. “You can believe whatever you want. You can show yourself out.” he said, presenting her with his back. 

“No.” Came the curt, iron-clad reply. 

He turned. “No?” He forced a laugh. 

Katie folded her arms. “I'm not leaving until you tell me the truth. I deserve that much, don't you think?” 

“I already told you. I'm fucking engaged. How many times do I need to say it before it finally sinks in?” 

“That's rubbish,” replied Katie. “You make your own decisions. I want to know why.” 

“You and I don't make any sense,” he replied. This part, at least, was true. “There's no future with us.” 

Also true. 

“Then why bother with it at all?” 

“Because you made it so bloody easy,” he replied coldly, turning from her. 

There were tears in her eyes, now. Good. 

Marcus knew he needed to deliver the last blow, needed to say the words that would keep her away from him forever, but all he could think of in that moment was that he was hurting her, hurting the one person he never wanted harm to come to, ever, and he wanted to go to her, to kill the bastard causing her pain, but it was him, wasn't it, he was the fucking bastard, and he wanted to tell her the truth, but all he could see was Bellatrix, her wide, ugly smile, and her words in his ear- 

”We broke them against each other like big, brave, stupid rocks-” 

“If you'd like to stay on in a lesser capacity, Flint Industries could hire you on as a retainer for your services-” 

The sting of her palm across his cheek was nothing, _nothing_ next to the tears in her eyes, the heat in her cheeks, and the furious tremble in her hand. He had done that. He had done that to her. The girl he never wanted to hurt, the girl who had seen him, really seen him, since the first time his sister died- 

“ _Fuck_ you,” she spat, her voice wavering, and she turned and stalked out of the flat, the door slamming shut behind her. 

Marcus stared at the door, then closed his eyes. 

There was a moment of silence, of nothing, and then the twisting, agonizing hurt in him roared to life. 

A priceless vase sailed across the room, shattering. The coffee table split under his foot, the cracked halves falling in a shower of splinters. 

The pain in his bare feet on glass barely registered as he stalked across the apartment, half-blind with anger, with pain, looking for something to break, anything- 

The ornate mirror on the wall splintered beneath his fist, and Marcus looked up, breathing heavily, staring at his broken reflection as blood trickled down his fist. His dark eyebrows heavy over his eyes, his mouth pulled back in a grimace, ugly, mean as his father- 

And what good was it? Caring? Feeling? What could people do but hurt you, one way or the other, whether they meant to stay or they had to leave? 

_Or they were taken from you?_

_They all left...eventually._

Marcus sank to the floor, his back against the door. 

The one fucking light in his life, and he'd pushed her away. 

Because you love her. Because she would never be safe with you. 

The thought was no consolation as he dropped his head into his bloody hands, squeezing his eyes shut. 

_It was done._

_She was gone._

_….._  
….  
…  
..  
.  
Katie spent her remaining weeks before the tryouts practicing on the Kelpie Jr. Quidditch League Pitch after obtaining permission from the property manager. She charmed two cricket balls to follow after her as bludgers, and spent sunup till sundown on the small pitch, running drills and throwing herself pass after pass, making goal after goal, until her throwing arm went numb. She ate a packed lunch on the pitch during her brief break in the afternoons, and with the exception of days where the Jr. League team practiced, she practiced all day, every day. 

She did not give herself time to think- when she returned to her flat at night and fell exhausted into bed, more often than not too tired to dream. Order business sometimes cut into her training time, but this was a welcome distraction as well. That was the real world, after all, the world in which Dumbledore's body was cold on Hogwart's ground, the world where people disappeared every day for no other reason than the whim of a madman. The happy bubble she had surrounded herself in with Marcus had been selfish and childish, and no more real than a dream. It was time to rejoin the world- the real world, not the world she had pretended was real.

When this was over, she told herself, when the Wizarding world was free of the fear that gripped it, she would build a life of her own, and she would surround herself with the people she loved. The people that loved her. She would play Quidditch, and it would be everything she dreamed. It was the thought that kept her going.

Quidditch might have seemed like a shallow thing to count on in the midst of so much turmoil, but if they gave up their dreams now, she reasoned, then what was the point?

She slept with her wand and wore her old DA coin around her neck where her father's necklace had once lain, waiting for it to warm once more. Waiting to be needed. Hoping that whatever Harry, Hermione, and Ron were doing, that they were successful- and safe.

They all had their battles to fight and until they were won, they would all just have to pretend that the world would be one day be worth living in again. 

And so Katie lived in two worlds, now- the world at war, and the dream of the world she would need when that war was over.  
…..  
….  
…  
..  
.

From across the table, Kiran, Mox, Mason, and her mother stared back at her, all deep in the throes of an expectant hush.

Katie looked down at her hands, sighing. “Well, I didn't make the reserve for Puddlemere or Holyhead.”

“Well, there's always next year-” started Mason.

“-more time to practice-” added Kiran.

“-don't know talent when they see it, obviously-” added Mox, scowling.

“Vell, zis is surely a mistake!” exclaimed Chadov, his bushy eyebrows furrowing as he slammed down his pint. “Ze owl, she is lost somewhere, yes?”

“Well, honey, there **was** a lot of competition-” began her mother, carefully.

“But you're looking at the starting chaser for the Chudley Cannons,” finished Katie, smiling, before she was ambushed by a yelling, laughing mass of people.

“-starting salary is lower than the other teams, but it's enough to go on. Plus there's a good dental plan, as it's Quidditch,” Katie said later in the attic of Weasleys Wizard Wheezes, (which had been fortified by no less than twenty protection spells for the occasion), surrounded by her friends as well. She was feeling a little tipsy- George and Lee had toasted to her success so many times she'd lost count of the drinks, and Kiran had brought along a flask of what felt like 1000 proof cognac that kept 'accidentally' tipping into her mug.

Still, even surrounded by her family and friends, she couldn't help but wishing that her father was there.

...and....maybe someone else, too, though she knew it was foolish...

...and hopeless, now.

“To the newest Cannons member, Katie Bell!” shouted Angelina and Alicia, raising their glasses, and the rest of her family and friends followed suit, grinning.

Forcing her thoughts back was like closing the door of an already overstuffed closet, but the firewhiskey helped. Katie held up the shot glass that Mason passed her way, and smiled, looking around at her friends and family, Mox's arm around her shoulders and the twins raising their mugs in the latest toast.

Tonight was about celebrating the things she was lucky enough to have, not mourning the things that were lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those of you still out there and reading, hello! Reviews are always very much appreciated!


	19. Chapter 19

_Dear Mum,_

_Katie Bell, professional Quidditch player. Can you believe it? Sometimes I want to pinch myself to make sure I'm not dreaming. They took my measurements for the uniform last week- guess it's official. Wonder what Dad would say about all this? Remember the time he flew my Cumulus 5 into the toolshed?_

_Good thing that broom only went about as fast as an inchworm. Only three stitches._

_I've enclosed tickets for both you and Chadov. Most teams get about six to distribute to friends and family- as it's the Canons, we get about 15. I'm sure I could have gotten more if I'd asked. We have a very loyal fan base, if not a large one._

_Don't worry, I'm being safe. Mox said to tell you he'd be by again this week to re-do the wards around the house, and I've just got off the Floo with Mason, he'll be back in London next week. You be safe, too, and I'll see you at the game!_

_Lots of love,  
Katie_

 

The first game of the season and her first game as a professional Quidditch player, Katie was the first one in the locker room two hours before the match was supposed to start. She'd braided her hair into a tight plait, done an impervious charm on her goggles in case of bad weather or gnats (thank you, Hermione), and checked the knots on all her laces twice. 

And despite the thorough thrashing she was fairly certain awaited her team, and the state of the world outside the stadium, a tiny ball of excitement still hummed in her. It was with shaking hands that she pulled on her gloves and flexed each hand, stretching the leather.

People were beginning to arrive, and Katie imagined her family and friends had already found their seats. She could hear the announcer practicing his amplification charm, and the sound of people ascending the stands. It was almost possible to forget that outside the grand arena, outside the cheering crowds, there was a war going on. 

Almost. Katie turned away from the door. 

The team uniforms had already been freshly laundered and laid out, each one a violent shade of orange. Katie held up her uniform, grinning as she took in her own name stitched across the back. 

Bell, Number 12.

Katie traced her fingers across the lettering. 

Katie Bell. Professional Quidditch player.

Mox, Mason, Kiran, her mother, and Astrik Chadov would be in the stands today, cheering for her, and of course Angelina, Leanne, Alicia and the rest of her friends would be listening on the wireless. It was a fortifying thought. 

There was also the seat she'd left empty for her father. If nothing else, his memory would be there. He'd told her to save him a seat, after all.

She tried to imagine what he'd say to her, now- probably something along the lines of, “Knock 'em dead, Bell! Five tries at least!”

She smiled. Her father in his excitement often got the rules of Quidditch and rugby confused.

Katie smile faded, however, when she reached for her broom. Hanging from the handle, there was a small black box, and a note with her name on it. It looked like a jewelry box- a rather fancy one. Katie looked around, but there was no one else in the changing rooms besides herself. Security was tight, even for the Cannons- who could have gotten into her locker? Had it been delivered? Perhaps a gift from her family?

No longer one to trust seemingly innocent parcels, (or jewelry of any kind), Katie brandished her wand. Rapping it against the small box three times, Katie muttered “Aparecium!” 

Nothing. Whatever it was, it wasn't harmful. 

_Probably._

Frowning, Katie sat down on the bench, turning the box every which way. Unremarkable black velvet in every direction, and no indication of the sender. Narrowing her eyes, she slowly opened the box and nearly dropped it when she saw what was inside. There, nestled on a black velvet cushion, was a necklace exactly like the one her father had given her, polished to an almost blinding shine. 

_Could it...?_ Carefully, she pressed her thumb along the seam of the small golden snitch. 

And there he was- her father running alongside her, grinning, his hand at her back, Katie, wearing an almost identical grin, her braid flapping in the breeze as she picked up speed, toes out, awkward but holding, and his voice-

“That's it, Kate! That's it! You've got it! I'm letting go now, going to let you go-”

Raising a shaking hand to her lips, Katie fought back tears. 

It was. But how? She'd told no one about pawning the locket. Mox, perhaps? Or her mother? No- they'd never asked about it missing. 

Katie brought her lips to the small golden snitch, closing her eyes. She'd expected the pawn shop had stripped down the enchantment and sold the locket by now- she'd never expected to see it again and had done her best to not think about it.

Lifting up her hair, Katie clasped the necklace before tucking it carefully beneath her robes. 

Voices in the hallway- the rest of her teammates were arriving. Quickly wiping at her eyes, Katie got to her feet and straightened her uniform.

She nodded at her fellow Canons as they shuffled past her, making small talk before the game. But her hand kept wandering back to the necklace, to the small, familiar little lump she'd missed so often in the last few weeks. Who could have sent it? She reached back into her locker, looking at the box.

The box itself was unremarkable- no help there. Having exhausted all other areas, Katie lifted up the small velvet partition inside- beneath, there was a small note, written in a non-descript, blocky scrawl: 

_For luck. You'll need it._  
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	20. Chapter 20

There was a kind of desperation in the air at the Hag's Den. Everyone was drinking heavily, their tables littered with empty glasses. Most spoke in low, hushed voices, and when laughter erupted, it faded back into a kind of pressurized silence that lasted longer and longer each time. 

“Ollie and the rest of them coming?” asked Katie.

“Ollie's got a Quidditch commitment, and Fred and George were looking forward to a program on the wireless. Lee was going to join them. They might pop by after, though.” 

_Ah. Potterwatch._

Katie nodded. “Right.”

“This may well be the last time we're all able to get out like this,” said Alicia grimly, signaling the bartender for another round of butterbeers. All three of the girls were wearing denims and jerseys with hoods. The outfits were a bit out of place at a wizarding pub, but most people passed by their table with their own thoughts weighing heavily on their mind, wizarding fashion not being one of them. 

“How can you say that? The Order's ten times as prepared this time-” said Angelina quietly.

“Doesn't seem to have helped Dumbledore much, does it?” said Alicia dully. 

“Let's...talk about something else,” said Angelina, looking around. 

“Fine.” Alicia reached into her purse and pulled out a magazine, thumbing through it.

“Let's see. Gwenog's Jones's beat up some idiot at the Magical Games Office, the Cannon'sve now become the first team to have the beater knock himself out with his bat in three successive games-”

“-don't remind me,” sighed Katie. “We're still not sure he's a go for the next game.”

“Mockrov's been swept up in some scandal involving a hag, a harpy, and a greased up hippogriff-”

“ _There's_ a mental image that'll stick for awhile,” muttered Angelina. 

“-annnnnd in perhaps the most shocking news of all, the Falcons are still trying to clean up their public image,” said Alicia. “Rep's talking more community service.”

“Still?”

“After almost a century of crushing skulls, they've got rather a lot of cleaning to do,” replied Alicia. “Dental hygiene, ribbon cuttings, baby kissings, the whole racket. I read in Quidditch Quarterly that the new manager is trying to expand their fan base.”

“Are you mental?” retorted Angelina, snorting. “They're still first in the league for penalties.”

“I said _image_ didn't I, not game play,” replied Alicia.

Angelina rolled her eyes. “Well, what's the point, if they aren't going to clean up their game-”

“Public perception carries a lot of weight with the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Besides, this way they can elbow people off their brooms with properly plucked eyebrows,” said Katie dully, shredding her napkin.

Angelina turned the page. “Ah! Stats. Katie, Cannons are last in the league for number of penalties-”

“-and for goals, and passing accuracy, and snitch captures, and offensive fouls because, mind you, you have to be able to get hold of the Quaffle to have an offensive foul in the first place,” finished Katie glumly, swirling her glass.

“You wanted to play professional Quidditch,” Alicia replied dispassionately. “So play it. Stop focusing on your team's weaknesses and start focusing on their strengths.”

“I would,” sighed Katie, thinking of their recent practices and taking a swig of butterbeer, remembering Cramden's latest collision with the middle goal post, “If we had any.”

“Who knows how long the leagues will stay open, anyway?” said Alicia. 

“For awhile yet, probably. You-Know-Who's keen to keep things running as smoothly as possible, for as long as possible.” said Katie. “The more people pretending nothing's wrong, the better.”

“Looks like the boys are a no show.” Angelina checked her watch. “Shall we be off, then?”

Tossing a few sickles on the table, the girls stood up and left the pub, pulling their hoods over their heads as they ducked outside.

“Ladies!” came a booming shout behind them, causing all three girls to whirl around, whipping their wands out of their back pockets.

Fred held up his hands defensively. “Whoa, no need to bring out the welcoming committee on my account.”

“Fred, you absolute wanker,” muttered Alicia, stowing her wand away. 

Angelina frowned. “It's late. Thought you weren't coming. Where's the rest?”

“Only me, I'm afraid,” said Fred. “George and Lee are dealing with a little...static interference. Assured me they could handle it themselves, told me to go off and enjoy the evening with you lovely ladies.”

Katie frowned. Death Eaters. She was certain Fred wouldn't have come, either, were it not for the fact that they liked to travel in pairs on nights like these to aid in quick apparations. 

“Well, shall we be off?” asked Fred, pulling his own hood over his head. 

“Let's,” agreed Angelina.

Katie slipped her wand up into her jersey sleeve, ducking her head into the wind. It was going to be a long night.

…..  
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The area near Lambeth was a beat Katie's father used to walk. The group started at the Battersea Power Station, then headed east, walking Black Prince Road as it diverted from the Thames River before turning onto Kennington, creating a kind of circle. 

Lights from the buildings wavered on the water, and the chilly night air reddened their cheeks. The group stayed close together, hands closed around their wands in their pockets, their hoods down over their foreheads to hide theirs faces as much as it was to keep out the cold.

“How's our information on this one?” asked Alicia, glancing behind her.

“Reasonably good,” replied Fred. “Tonight or tomorrow, supposed to be.”

Angelina gave Fred a sharp look. “This isn't your Extendable Ears again, is it? We spent all night at that damned garbage dump-”

“There's nothing wrong with the Extendable Ears,” hissed Fred. “But no, this one came from good ol' Mundy.”

“Oh, that's bloody great,” muttered Angelina.

Alicia rolled her eyes. “Yeah, 'cause he's been the epitome of reliable-”

“Shut it, you two,” said Katie, glancing behind them. “Let's cross the bridge now.”

The air was even colder by the time they reached the Queen Elizabeth II, and the sharp, stinging wind worsened on the exposed bridge. The group held their wands at waist level, quietly muttering protective charms as they traced their wand tips along the cables. The supports glowed momentarily before fading back to dull metal, the protective enchantments hidden within. 

Fortunately, at the later hour there were not many cars or foot-traffic. Since the infamous 'Attack on London', bridges were an unpopular walking destination, though the muggle Minister assured the public that all public road systems were perfectly safe. Untrue, but Katie supposed the Minister had his hands tied there. He couldn't exactly go on public record saying mad wizards were about killing muggles for sport. There were days she barely believed it herself.

It was over an hour before the group reached the other end of the bridge, and then, all four of them were wind-chapped and tired. In addition to their regular jobs, their night activities often stretched into the morning, and the hours were beginning to put a strain on all of them.

“Let's head back,” muttered Fred. 

“No, I want to do a protection charm on the Fennet's house first,” said Angelina. “Their dad's only just gotten carted off to the Ministry, their Mum's a muggle, and the poor kids are scared out of their-”

“Get down!” shouted Alicia suddenly, shoving Angelina back just as a bright light flared in the dark, stopping just short of the alleyway as it dropped. The group spun and pointed their wands at it, but it was a Patronus, and the shape glimmered as it came to a stop. 

The shape was sleek and shimmery, and it turned to speak to them with a deep voice Katie couldn't quite place. “They know you're here. Leave now.” 

“We'll go and meet up-” Fred began quickly, just as a red jet of light flew through the air, narrowly missing his head. Instead, the spell smacked like a bolt of lightening in to the side of Angelina's protective shell, which now glimmered over the group.

Katie whipped out her wand and turned, identifying a hooded shape in the dark, wand raised, before shouting, “Protego!” adding another barrier over Angela's spell.

The next curse slammed into the newly risen shield, shattering it.

“Stupify!” shouted Fred, aiming into the dark, but the figure twisted and became a cloud of dark vapor that jetted off towards a back alley and out of sight.

“Shit,” muttered Alicia, whipping around. “Let's get-”

Rather than see the incoming Death Eaters, Katie felt the draft of their wake as they shot through the air, materializing in front of the alleyway. Six of them now.

“There's too many!” shouted Angelina, grabbing Alicia and turning on the spot. “Go, go!” 

Fred grabbed her arm and twisted as well, and Katie caught the briefest flash of Dolohov's sneering face before the world went spinning and twisting back into Diagon Alley. Landing on their feet, the she and Fred quickly pulled their hoods over their head and threw them in the nearest trash bin, each wordlessly going their own ways.

Katie shoved her hands in her pockets and walked back to her brother's flat, a frown knitting her brows as her hammering heartbeat slowed to normal. 

She knew most of the Order's Patronus's on sight...but that one had looked very similar to her own.

…..  
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	21. Chapter 21

_Dear Mox,_

_How are you two? Did you get those dark detectors I sent? Thought you might be able to use them on the outposts of the preserve. They're not fool-proof, of course, but they're decent supplements to the wards. Can't be too careful!_

_Everything's fine here, you and Kiran can stop worrying. I can take care of myself, you know! See you at Mom's for dinner Friday._

_Stay safe, you two._

_Lots of love,  
Katie_

_p.s. I've enclosed tickets to the upcoming match. You...may want to drink in advance._

_p.p.s. Kiran, please stop sending your Patronus round without warning. An Abraxan is not subtle...or small. Scared the shite out of me. There's still tomato soup on the ceiling._

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Katie had been avoiding her calendar for the last few weeks, but to no avail- she knew it was coming. The date might as well have been etched on the back of her brain. 

And now it was here.

Eating her breakfast, chasing her little cereal grains listlessly around the bowl with her spoon, Katie could see the red lettering out of the corner of her eye- FALCONS VS. CANNONS (AWAY)- big block letters she'd penned in two months ago, gritting her teeth all the while. All month, she could feel it inching closer, like an impossibly big spider on her bedroom ceiling. Now, the day before, it was positively breathing down her neck. 

Distracted by the calendar, Katie brought her coffee cup to her mouth and nearly chipped a tooth on the rim. Sputtering, she brought it back down on the table and wiped her hand across her mouth, disgusted with herself.

This wasn't Hogwarts, and she wasn't some stupid infatuated first year- this was bloody professional Quidditch. It wasn't as if she had to sit down at a table with him and swap Potion notes, or see him in the hallways- they'd just have to fly opposite each other while the teams were announced, and afterward they'd be cutting through the pitch at near breakneck speeds, trying to get at the same ball while avoiding bludgers to the vitals. No time for polite conversation. No prolonged eye contact. No contact at all, if the rules were followed. But this was the Falcons- when had they ever followed the rules?

Katie set down her spoon with a clang and rose to her feet. She was an adult, wasn't she? More than that, she was a professional Quidditch player. She would put on her uniform and do her bloody job, and that was the beginning and the end of it.

Katie looked down to see both Sophie and Wink blinking up at her...she'd been speaking out loud.

Slowly, she sank back into her chair. "Yeah, I don't believe me either," she muttered.

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The game didn't go as badly as Katie had feared.

It actually went much, much worse. 

Fortunately, the Falcon's arena was only at a third capacity, owing to much of their fan base being hunted, imprisoned, or otherwise 'occupied' with the events of the war, one way or the other. 

There was, Katie supposed, the small consolation that only a fraction of their usual fanbase had actually seen the match, but she was pretty sure that everyone in attendance would remember it...forever.

Katie had paced the away team's locker room, done her breathing exercises, kissed her snitch charm for luck. She had gathered every last shred of gumption and braced herself for the worst, but there was no real way to brace yourself against a hurt that already lay inside of you.

In fact, if Kate was honest, the whole thing went went sour the moment the gates opened.

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If Marcus was honest, the whole thing went tits-up the minutes they did team line-ups. 

He'd been ignoring the date for weeks, pretending that the small red x on his calendar meant anything else. Easier to pretend she had been a dream, easier to pretend that what they had wasn't real.

And yet, here she was...real. 

What they'd had...real.

What he'd lost...

Marcus tightened his grip on his broom handle. It was bad enough, being near her, but to have their last argument fresh in his mind, as open and sore as a still-bloody wound, to have the last time he'd seen her wounded, and knowing it was he that had hurt her-

-and there she was suddenly, feet away, hunching over her broom with every muscle taut. Her normally animated, happy expression was calm and cold and blank, her hazel eyes dull and unblinking as she stared across the pitch at him...past him.

He took a deep breath, his heart hammering in his chest like a bird try to flutter free, his stomach queasy and twisting.

 _Isn't this what you wanted?_ his brain sneered, sounding an awful lot like his father. _You wanted her to hate you. So have done with it._

Hovering several hundred feet across the pitch, he met her blank gaze with one of his own.

…..  
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Katie closed her eyes, tightening her hand around the tiny golden snitch that lay beneath her jersey. Ogland was yelling something at her, but it seemed a world away.

And then the whistle sounded and the match began, and they were speeding along the pitch, dodging bludgers, dodging Foxanna as she swooped in to block her, but the memories were on her mind, not her flying-

_-swinging their hands between them as they walked through Muggle London, their shoulders bumping in the crowd-_

_-his hand sliding down to twine with hers as he moved his hips in slow circles, his lips at her neck, and it was sunrise before they slept, his arm around her, her body fitted to his like a puzzle piece, the smell of his shoulder deep and warm and comforting as the fired died down to embers-_

_-his gaze blank, unfeeling as he stood in his kitchen and told her that he was marrying someone else, that they were done, no, worse, that they were a diversion-_

And with that, all that hurt, all that foolish hope seemed to harden up inside her, making her hands tighten into fists on her broom handle, zooming closer to Ogland for the pass.

“And it's Bell! Bell with the Quaffle, making a straight drive towards the goal-”

And there was Marcus, flanking her, just out of reach as he moved to block her. Always out of reach, always holding back, giving her everything but the truth, everything but the whole of it-

Foxanna threw her shoulder into Katie, slamming her into Marcus. She nearly dropped the Quaffle, but straightened her broom and adjusted her grip, hunching over and dipping down just as Foxanna leaned in for another grab.

Marcus followed her, pressing close, and she knew that he would try to throw her off her course, get ahead of her if he could and block her movement long enough for the bludgers to get a hit in-

_And yet you couldn't predict him breaking your heart, could you, stupid girl?_

Katie drew back, preparing a long throw to Zim, saw Marcus zoom in closer out of the corner of her eye, and turned and snapped the quaffle as hard as she could...directly at him. 

Flint was too surprised to catch it- Katie couldn't fault him; it wasn't every day the opposing team threw the ball- 

-at your face.

The ball bounced off his skull with a smack that made the arena groan, and Katie was able to recover it on the rebound, dropping down in altitude so fast Doxen and Marcus nearly collided as Doxen swung in to trap her. To Marcus's credit, he managed to stay on his broom, but one hand immediately went to his nose. 

Pulling up hard after the drop, Katie lost Doxen and Foxana, and even Flint, his nose now gushing blood, was only able to make half a lunge at her before she whipped the ball towards the tallest hoop.

“CANNONS SCORE!”

Instead of the usual elation Katie always felt at the completion of a goal, she felt only a hard, blank, anger as she pulled up. She turned her broom, shooting back towards her own goal to help set up defense.

The Falcons fans roared in protest, but the referee held up his hands. There was no rule about chasers throwing the ball at an opposing chaser, because, typically, it was avoided on principle.

The rest of the game was a blur, but even before the Falcons caught the Snitch, Katie knew she'd lost, and badly.  
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	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is anyone still reading this? Will do my best to update with more frequency for the coming chapters. In this chapter, Marcus steals a thought from Ouiser in Steel Magnolias, one of my very favorite characters in one of my very favorite movies. (As it happens, it's the first line of the chapter.)

It was official. Marcus had finally found it. He was in hell.

And, as it happened, hell had surprisingly turned out to be the annual end of year Quidditch gala.

Quidditch galas and fundraisers were always filled with food, dance and flash photography (all magical, of course). Half the time reporters just charmed the cameras to follow people around, so, walking inside, you were usually treated to a flurry of half-blinding photographs, followed by an endless stream of meaningless conversations with reporters, and of course, there was the cause of the week, which was sometimes noteworthy but usually forgettable. Most of the time, Marcus just threw galleons at whatever it was and drowned out the speeches with drinks. 

Then there were group photographs, which usually resulted in a fist fight, particularly if Puddlemere and the Falcons were anywhere close to one another. Then there was a cocktail hour, then some sort of speech, then dinner, then another speech that by that time no one was listening to. All Quidditch functions, to Marcus, seemed a lot like herding a group of very temperamental (drunk) cats.

No exception himself, Marcus was well into his third scotch of the night by the time the actual cocktail hour rolled around, and was more than ready for the night to be over.

He gazed around, adjusting the cuffs on his dress robes. There were less cameras and crowds this time, and the entire ballroom had a kind of stifled, forced mood, like someone playing a happy jig at a funeral. 

There were serious doubts as to whether or not the season would even resume in the coming months, though no one was saying it. Half the players had already been lost to the Muggleborn Registration, and the remainder were thoroughly divided in ideologies (and the activities those ideologies required.) Several people had stopped showing up for matches altogether. Oliver Wood, for example, had not shown up to the last three matches, which meant he was in hiding...or worse. 

Marcus stared at the ice in his glass and wondered how pissed his captain would be if he ducked out early. 

Probably quite.

“-earth to Marcus. You in there?” asked Doxen, waving a hand in front of his face. 

Shit. Doxen had been talking.

“Mate, you either need to drink a lot more, or a lot less,” chuckled his captain. 

“What's the point of all this?” grumbled Marcus. “The way things are headed, we won't have enough players to put together a single team, much less a league.”

“The point? Well, I believe the theme of the night is-” Doxen squinted at a placard on one of the tables. “Research benefiting the advancement of something-or-other. Dunno. Something for St. Mungos. Does it matter?”

“Suppose not.” Nothing much seemed to matter, these days.

"Foxanna's late, suppose I shouldn't be surprised. She was coming from a mini break in London, some member of the Weird Sisters this time-"

"Thought they were all blokes?"

"Maybe it was their manager, I don't remember." Suddenly, Doxen whistled under his breath. “Damn, the Harpies sure traded up mid-season, didn't they?” Marcus followed his captain's line of sight and saw Gwenog Jones and an image that nearly floored him. Standing next to the Harpies captain was none other than Katie Bell, wearing heels and a black dress with a neckline that nearly plunged to her navel. 

Marcus blinked, but the vision remained.

In fact, the apparition turned to smile at someone behind her and a familiar gold necklace glittered between her breasts, proving that it was indeed Katie Bell and not some strange siren that crawled out of the sea wearing a copy of her face. 

To add further to his conviction, the old scar that still swallowed her arm and shoulder, ending just above her breast. There were new scars, too, half-healed. 

Quidditch scars...right. That's what all of them were painting them as these days.

Marcus took a long drink.

“New chaser, Katie-”

“Bell.” finished Marcus, narrowing his eyes. 

Doxen raised an eyebrow. “You know her? Personally?”

“Hogwarts,” Marcus replied simply.

Doxen let out a bark of laughter. “No, no, that's right, that's the bird that smashed the quaffle full on in your fucking face, isn't it?” 

Marcus silently wished his captain a slow death. “When'd she get traded?” he asked.

“Month ago, I guess, but it just went through now. Cannons needed a Keeper that wasn't afraid of the Quaffle, Harpies had Gnoma Starks in reserve, she's decent but not consistent. There's also the fact that at least a quarter of their team was Muggle and they're hurting for players, but I reckon the Harpies were impressed with what Bell did for the Cannons offense. Granted, a half-trained security troll would have been an improvement over their last chaser, but she's pretty good.”

Katie had turned around to speak to someone else, presenting him with the very welcome (or unwelcome) knowledge that what the dress did in the front, it did in the back as well, exposing her shoulders and the flare of her waist, stopping just short of her arse. It wasn't a dress she would have picked out for herself. Who the fuck was she wearing it for?

Katie was scanning the room as well, holding her champagne flute in one hand and her clutch in the other. He could tell the instant her eyes landed on him, because her face went immediately blank and she turned in the opposite direction.

Having experienced her impulsive ire and now her cold indifference, Marcus found he much preferred the quaffle to the face.

Doxen whistled. “The hell'd you do to piss that girl off so bad, by the way?”

“Not a thing.” Marcus looked around for a waiter. It was going to be a very long night.  
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Katie stared into the fire, where Kiran's handsome and exasperated face was staring back at her. “Well?” she asked.

“Post-season Quidditch gala, lots of press, big names. You'll want a cocktail dress. Maybe something by Zinsky, he's hot this year.”

“Who?”

Kiran let out a deep sigh, reminding Katie for a moment of her mother. “We'll make this easy. What do you want to look like?”

Katie thought a moment. “...not me.” She didn't want to feel like herself, either; maybe the dress would help.

“Not you. That's helpful,” said Kiran, exasperated. “How many galleons am I working with, exactly?”

“No more than three.”

“You don't make this easy, do you?”

“Admit it,” Katie replied. “If I made it easy, it wouldn't be as much fun.”

Kiran rolled his eyes. “All right then. Give me the afternoon. I'll work my magic.”

“You're the best, Kiran.”

“Oh, I know.”  
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Gwenog Jones met Katie in the hotel lobby and whistled as she walked up.

Even Katie had to admit that Kiran had outdone himself. And by outdone himself, Katie meant she was going to kill him once she got out of the four-inch shag-me heels he'd had delivered to her flat that afternoon. 

Or maybe she'd just beat him to death with the heels, she thought, trying not to wobble.

She had a sneaking suspicion the notoriously fashion-savvy wizard had gone over the 3 galleon limit- the dress was indeed a Zinsky- at least, that's what the label said. Truthfully, Katie wouldn't know a Zinsky from any other slinky dress in the world.

And slinky it was. The sleeveless dress robes were made of weighted black silk and opened in a V a few inches short of her belly button, opening a very long but tastefully narrow slice of skin that revealed a hint of her breasts while the comparatively modest skirt fell in a slinky shimmer to her ankles. The dress was well-tailored, and moved almost like liquid when she walked. A pair of black heels and long drop-point earrings that shimmered at her shoulders completed the look- Kiran had spared no detail. 

But of course he hadn't.

The outfit was far from trashy, but Katie privately felt that its edgy elegance belonged on someone like Alicia or Angelina, not her.

 _Well, you did say you didn't want to look like yourself,_ her brain reminded her.

“Sorry, they were fresh out of potato sacks,” Kiran had said sarcastically when she'd Floo'ed him to complain. “You'll have to make due.”

Gwenog, meanwhile, was dressed in shimmery gold robes with a skirt that hiked several inches above her knees. Thousands of tiny sequins had been sewn across the breasts and hem, making her sparkle as she moved and drawing attention to her muscular yet curvy build. The dress suited her, thought Katie. Sexy and flashy and not at all subtle.

Jones did a lap around her, nodding in approval. “Nice, Bell. Who dressed you?”

“I-” 

No use lying. Assuming the Harpies kept her more than a season, Gwenog was bound to find out she had no real fashion sense to speak of.

“-my brother's boyfriend.”

“Excellent, always pays to have a poof in one's closet for such occasions,” said Gwenog, taking Katie by the arm and hauling her along. “C'mon. I want you to meet Harris Handel.”

“Who's that?” asked Katie, trying to keep up. At this point, she was skating more so than walking on the heels.

“Honestly, Bell, have you lived under a rock these past couple years?”

 _“No, St. Mungos,”_ thought Katie bitterly, but kept her retort to herself.

“Handel's a big broom guru, put out this year's Silvershots, fair contenders with the Firebolt. He's looking for a team to be the face for the new line, and I want that sponsorship.”

“And I come in, where-”

“-wearing that dress, precisely. In the off season, girl, you've got to play politics. Endorsements, product, the lot.”

Katie rolled her eyes and followed in Gwenog's wake before the team captain stopped suddenly, nearly causing Katie to run into her. 

“Hold off a second. I see Mortimer Letch, and if I'm going to have to talk to that pillock, I'm going to need to get royally pissed first. Wait here, I'm getting us drinks. Real ones, none of this fluffed-up fruit juice.” Stomping off in her stilt-like sequined heels, Gwenog left Katie to fend for herself. 

“Great,” muttered Katie, looking around.

None of the other Harpies were here yet, and though Katie caught the eye of several old Cannons teammates, she could only wave and smile, knowing her new captain wouldn't appreciate her appearing overly friendly. Professional Quidditch was a rather territorial sport.

Then again, thought Katie, that might just be Gwenog. 

On some level, playing for the Harpies was a dream come true. A dream from an old life, true, but a high-flown hope now realized nonetheless. However, Katie could not ignore the fact that if it were not for the fact that the league had lost more than half its muggle players, the Harpies would most likely never have considered her. Katie knew she was a solid player- exceptional for the Cannons, perhaps, but not the Harpies. 

Then again, you could probably glue a niffler to a broom and enjoy better success than most of the Cannons offense put together.

Katie snagged a glass of 'fluffed-up fruit juice' from the floating trays and drained it, waiting for that infamous 'liquid courage' to sink in. While she waited, Katie looked around, admiring her surroundings. The ballroom had been decorated with blue silk drapery and crystals clung to every stationary surface, giving the impression of a winter landscape. Blue and white silk curtains cloaked the windows, and elegant ice carvings dripped onto silver platters. There might not be a war raging outside at all, for all the finery the Quidditch League had scrounged up to put on display. It was a veneer, a thin one, and one made thinner by the fact that Katie knew firsthand just how bad things were becoming. To say the Order was stretched thin was an understatement; they seemed to be more damage control than protection, and their meetings were made all the more bleak by ever-increasing death notices. 

Katie wouldn't be here herself, but appearances had to be maintained. A professional Quidditch player not attending a major Quidditch function would indicate that Katie had more pressing engagements, and certain people would want to know what those certain pressing engagements were. There was enough scrutiny directed her way already, given her past involvement in Dumbledore's Army, and Katie certainly didn't want to draw more.

Katie edged towards the buffet table, where an impressive array of hors d'eavres had been laid out on silver platters. Stuffed shrimp, mushroom toast, meatballs in some sort of white sauce, and an array of delicate finger sandwiches, each stuffed with a different filling. Katie selected a salmon toast point with an olive garnish, and then another. She'd run an 'errand' for Fred and George and Lee that afternoon and hadn't had time to eat lunch...or dinner.

The food really was quite good, or perhaps she was just very hungry. Quickly, Katie stuffed the third finger sandwich she had been considering into her mouth, and felt with horror the olive garnish slip from the top of the toast point, between her breasts, and down into the Valley of No Return. 

“Oh, shite,” muttered Katie, glancing down. 

_This bloody dress._

Katie looked around for a loo. There was a band off to the side tuning up, and Marcus Flint was walking towards her-

_Wait, what?_

Marcus Flint was striding towards her and she knew by the determined look on his face that she could either face him now and or duck and cover and probably face him later. Knowing she couldn't very well run in the shoes without making a public spectacle of herself, Katie sighed and stood her ground. 

She resisted the urge to square her shoulders- she didn't entirely trust what the neckline of her dress would do. She settled for folding her arms instead.

Why, oh why, did it have to be him walking towards her? Why couldn't it be Georgia Silverstone or Wilda Griffiths, her fellow Chasers, or Rita Seeker, or even a Death Eater or six, for the love of Merlin? Katie downed her drink and plucked another from a passing tray.

“Bell.”

“Flint,” she said shortly, without looking at him. Apparently they were on a last-name basis now.

“Congratulations. I hadn't heard.” said Marcus, leaning against the buffet table. 

Of all the things he could have said, this was far from what she expected. Still, she could be an adult, couldn't she? Be civil? That was what adults did, wasn't it? Sucked it up and acted civil when they very badly wanted to throttle each other? Edged around the giant elephant in the room and talked about the weather or Quidditch or something equally unremarkable?

“Congratulations for what, exactly?”

“It's what you always wanted, isn't it? Playing for the Harpies? Or has that changed?”

Katie bit back a bitter laugh. _So much had changed in her little world. It was hard to remember a time when playing professional Quidditch was all she wanted._

“Suppose,” she said, looking into the crowd. “The trade wouldn't have gone through if they hadn't lost Gertrude and Moira, of course. All things considered, I miss the Cannons sometimes.”

Marcus snorted. “You miss losing every single game?” 

She finally turned to look at him. “We didn't lose _every_ game.”

“Damn near.”

“Yes well, if you'll recall, we very nearly beat your team,” she said icily, staring fixedly at the buffet table again.

Marcus glared at her. The near-loss to the Cannons was still a major point of contention, to say nothing of the headache that was playing against his ex (like concentrating on the Quaffle). 

_Or getting pelted with said Quaffle in the face-_

“I miss the team dynamic, I suppose,” continued Katie, still not looking at him. “Jones is...rather intense, as a captain. Bit of a bully. Nothing on you, 'course,” she added. 

She didn't know why she said it. It was a nod to their old world...the old way of things. The things she tried every day to bury down deep enough to get out of bed and function normally.

The words brought back their practices- sweaty, **intense**

_-she could feel his eyes on her as she moved, feeling the power in her own body, the hard flex of her thighs as she leaned into the turn, feeling the heat build between her legs as she imagined him there instead-_

_-scoring her nails down his back as he hovered over her in bed, later, his teeth at her neck, the solid muscles of his ass flexing beneath the heels of her feet as she dug in, taking one long-_

_-shuddering breath as he filled her-the look on his face when he first pushed inside her, always half-surprised, like he was coming awake, alive-_

Marcus's expression faltered and for one stupid instant, she wondered if he was remembering it too. “Please. I went easy on you.” 

Shouldn't it be harder, speaking with him again? Shouldn't she be able to hate him by now? 

Damn it, why couldn't she sharpen this heavy, saggy sadness in her chest into anger and pierce _his_ heart with it, instead of just driving the same stakes through her own?

Scowling, Katie shoved another salmon toast point into her mouth.

“Ah, there you are, Marcus, I'd wondered where you'd gotten to,” interrupted a feminine voice behind them. Katie turned to look. Marcus didn't.

A young woman slid her arm into Marcus's, smiling. She was wearing stunning grey robes, and her, sleek, shiny hair had been twisted in an elaborate knot that showed off a pair of beautiful oval-shaped emerald earrings. A matching necklace with several emeralds the size of river stones glittered at her throat. 

Looking at her, Katie realized that hearing about Marcus's intended in the abstract and seeing her in person were two entirely different things. 

It hurt a lot more, for one.

“Acantha Greengrass.” she said, when Marcus didn't immediately introduce her.

“Of course,” said Katie. “I remember you from Hogwarts. Nice to see you again.”

_Liar, liar, pants on fire, Katie's conscience nagged._

Truthfully, all the Greengrass girls looked the same to Katie- all had sharp tongues, big tit-er, vaults, and all could be as nasty as a vexed veela; anyway, they were easy enough to spot, and Katie knew Acantha was the oldest.

“I'm sorry to say I can't say the same,” replied the young woman. “You are?”

Were they playing this game? Really? The You're-Not-Important-Enough-To-Remember-Game? 

“Katie Bell.”

Marcus was standing as silent and still as a stone, grey eyes flickering between the two women as if watching an increasingly hostile muggle tennis match.

Acantha pursed her lips. “Charmed, I'm sure. Are you here with someone, then?”

“I-” frowned Katie. Oh bloody hell, she'd remembered the dress and forgotten a date. She should have brought someone. Anyone. Lee. George. Angelina would have happily lent her Fred. Even Kiran. He was gorgeous and no one had to know he was pretty much her brother.

“No. I'm a player for the Harpies, actually.”

“Well, good for you! And at such a young age, too!” said the young woman, smiling. 

Katie sighed. _Where was a quaffle when she needed one?_

“Oi! Bell!” 

Katie had never been so happy to see her team captain, who was carrying two very large colorful drinks with even brighter umbrellas. To Katie, she said, “Don't ask what it is, but it'll knock you right on your arse. Cheers!” 

Katie accepted the drink gratefully and took a large sip from the straw. The sheer alcohol content was like a smack in the face, and she nearly choked on her first swallow.

“That's it, rookie, down the hatch!” said Jones, clapping her on the shoulder in what she obviously thought was a helpful manner. Katie wobbled a little on the heels. 

That was all she needed- to be sprawled on the ground, tits-out, wearing her drink in front of her ex-boyfriend and his horrible little harpy fiance. Katie examined her drink. Whatever it was, it was making her nasty...er. Nastier.

Her captain's eyes narrowed as she took in Katie's new company. “Greengrass, the hell are you doing here? Wimbourne looking for a team mascot?”

The former Slytherin girl's eyes canted as well. “Clever. I'm here with Marcus,” she said, lifting her chin. “Don't you read the society section?”

“Guess they've been too busy printing lists of deaths and disappearances to print anything current about inbreeding. Don't worry, 'Canthy, I'm sure they'll get around to you and your big business first thing, once everybody stops getting offed in the streets and drug out of their shops kicking and screaming in the middle of the night.”

This time, Katie really did choke on her drink, and once again Gwenog slammed her between the shoulder blades, this time even harder. When Katie surfaced for air, her ears were ringing.

“One can only hope,” said the Slytherin girl icily. “The sooner this war is over, the better.”

“On that we can agree.” Gwenog took a long gulp of her drink. “So, Acantha, how have you been keeping busy these days? Charities? Sewing circles? Shagging your way through the Death Eater circle, making new connections for Daddy?”

Gwenog and Acantha's conversation was carried out at normal volume levels, spoken in the tone of two old friends catching up, but it carried all the venom of two hungry pit vipers.

In fact, the Slytherin girl's eyes were practically throwing sparks, now. “Well, we can't all be lonely little career girls, now can we, Jones? I suppose your broom stands in for the men these days. Or are you up to two at once?”

Gwenog waved at a passing photographer, flashing a smile. “Oh, I don't know, Greengrass, you're a bit of a career girl yourself, aren't you? What do they call it? World's oldest profession? Nice to see you've finally tied one down, at least.”

Katie could only assume that Jones's family's high status had kept her safe all these years, because her mouth certainly hadn't. Marcus, meanwhile, seemed completely impervious to the acrid atmosphere between the two witches. In fact, he looked almost bored. Katie supposed conversations like this were commonplace in high wizarding society. Truthfully, when Katie had imagined Slytherin parties, they had all involved comparing vaults, drinking fancy punch out of silver cups, and lazily sniping at your nearest neighbor. 

Acantha lifted one shoulder in a little shrug. “The men of our little circles do have their years of sowing wild oats and shocking Mummy and Daddy, I'll admit, but eventually they step out of the pig pen and come back around to sense and reason. Isn't that why Dolphus chucked you?”

Acantha's words might have been for Gwenog, but she looked at Katie when she said it, and Katie felt something in her chest twist with a hot anger that surprised her with its intensity.

Gwenog, however, glanced over her shoulder, apparently unperturbed by the loss of the aforementioned Dolphus. “Oh, balls, that's Arland Brims over there, damnit, that great pillock, he's secretary to the Head of Magical Games and Sports. Hold up a moment. I've got a bone to pick with him about the latest rule change regarding hits to the face.”

Katie colored at the reference. She still wasn't proud of herself for that move. Marcus's expression, however, remained unreadable...which rather made her want to pelt him in the face with a quaffle again.

Katie looked mournfully after Gwenog. If Katie could have snatched her Captain's arm and anchored her to her side, she would have, but was worried about making sudden moves in the heels. Instead, she was left gazing mournfully after Jones, knee deep in the shark tank and searching for a graceful way out. 

Fortunately, it seemed help was on the way; a tall, good-looking man with broad shoulders and a neatly-groomed goatee was walking towards them. Katie recognized Blake Doxen immediately- Captain of the Falcons and Witch Weekly's top 10 Most Shagable Wizards three years running. Katie blamed Alicia for having that ridiculous piece of knowledge stuck in her brain.

“Marcus, how're we doing? Katie Bell, right?” he asked, shaking her hand. “Blake Doxen, always a pleasure to meet one of you lovely Harpies off the pitch.”

“I'm rather new. Heard your latest match against the Tornados on the wireless,” said Katie, managing a smile. “That was a great game, last- your reverse pass to Foxana on the second goal was really something.”

“Was it? I'm afraid when you play Quidditch any length of time, the games all start to run together, particularly after a few quaffles to the head,” said Doxen, grinning down at her and tapping his temple. “Besides, I seem to remember a pretty notable move being pulled off during Quidditch tryouts this past year. Wagman's Cross? You're practically famous among the recruiters. Gave Sol Martinson a bloody heart attack. If it weren't for an already full roster, the Falcon's would've been interested.”

Katie felt her cheeks heat. “Well, they're leaving out the part of the story where I nearly vaulted through the middle post, then.”

“Still....Wagman's Cross...impressive,” said Blake, and Katie flushed a little under his scrutiny. 

“What the hell do you want, Doxen?” asked Marcus suddenly, glaring at his captain.

“Just saying hello,” said the other man, smiling easily. “I'm not interrupting anything, am I?”

“Not at all,” interrupted Acantha, her eyes narrowed at Katie. “Wait a moment. You were a Gryffindor, am I right?”

“That's right,” replied Katie. 

“So many accomplished witches and wizards from Gryffindor these days, aren't there?” exclaimed the witch, smiling. “Though I dare say there will be a great deal less of you after this war is finished.”

Katie's grip on her glass tightened. 

“We should-” began Marcus, but his date wasn't finished.

“It's so odd, I really just can't really place you at all beyond your house,” continued Astoria, sweetly, peering down at Katie. “You say you've only just graduated?”

Acantha knew damned well who Katie was, who she was affiliated with, and her past involvement with Marcus. With a possible union between the Flints and the Greengrasses considered at birth, Acantha would have paid close attention to Marcus and any...associates...he'd had over the past years. It was like watching any other investment; you watched to make sure it was doing well in the markets, to make sure it had the capacity to be profitable long term. Most Slytherin girls grew up knowing how to plan for the future, and the ones not interested in marrying for love marked prospects the same way you branded cattle or tagged wildlife.

In Katie's experience, girls like Acantha Greengrass also grew up learning how to put others in their place. Katie supposed that particular hobby was fueled by an inherent dislike that was practically fed to them in their mother's milk, taught to them in their early studies along with reading and writing and which forks were which. Katie had seen it often enough in Pansy's behavior towards Hermione, whom she seemed to hate out of habit rather than any real reason beyond the fact that Gryffindor girls were the standard posts Slytherin girls sharpened their claws on. 

Hermione, however, had borne her torment with more grace than Katie's temper would allow her.

“Last year.” Katie took a sip of her drink, lowered it, and met the older girl's gaze. “Perhaps you'll remember my brother Mason, then?”

“No, I'm afraid it doesn't sound familiar, either. You Bells just fade into the woodwork, don't you?”

“Really? You don't remember Mason?” asked Katie, raising her eyebrows. “You did shag him your sixth year, didn't you?”

Blake choked on his drink.

Acantha's cheeks were reddening. “Excuse me?”

 _Rude,_ her conscience niggled, sounding disturbingly like her mother. _You're being rude._. 

Nasty was a better word for it, but Katie had had just about enough.

“It's legendary, really, the two students caught in the Astronomy tower at three in the morning? My brother wound up hung up by his drawers on a gargoyle. He got nabbed by Filch of course, and you ran straight into Professor Flitwick, story had it. We took the mickey for weeks with Mason, well, years, really. Actually, come to think of it, we're still taking the mickey.” 

Silence. 

Katie smiled. “You really don't remember? Ah, well. I suppose one does lose count, over the years, how did you put it? Sloughing around in the pig pen?”

Acantha gaped at her. Doxen was now smirking at her over his drink, and Marcus was staring at Katie as if he'd never seen her before. 

Katie could relate.

Katie smiled through the silence that followed. “Well, cheers. To old mistakes.” she said brightly, lifting her drink and taking a long, burning gulp, looking at Marcus as she did it. 

Gwenog chose that moment to return, thank Merlin, well into her second yard-sized drink. She looked from Acantha's rapidly heating cheeks, to Doxen's smirk, to Marcus's continually inscrutable gaze. 

“Well, what'd I miss?” Gwenog demanded.

“I'll fill you in,” replied Katie. “Have a lovely night. Doxen, so nice to meet you off the pitch.” 

Taking her Captain's arm, Katie began to steer them away. 

“Oh! And congratulations on your upcoming engagement, Marcus.” she called over her shoulder. 

Back at the bar, however, the silly, elated feeling Katie had temporarily experienced plummeted into her stomach like a stone.

It must have shown on Katie's face, because Gwenog glanced at her. “You need a shot.”

“I need three,” muttered Katie, slumping against the bar.

“Two Witch Tits,” said Gwenog, leaning against the counter. The bartender nodded, and soon, two shot classes filled with a green liquid and topped with a cold, smoky vapor materialized at the bar. “I swear, that Greengrass, always attached to the biggest cock in the room. In Flint's case, literally.”

Katie decided she most definitely did not want to know where Gwenog got that particular piece of information. Instead, she clinked shot glasses with her team captain, then downed hers in one gulp. This one burned a little less on the way down. Perhaps she was developing a tolerance?

No, thought Katie, she was just getting royally pissed. 

_Cheers,_ her brain muttered.

“I'll have another big cock-, er, drink...another one of these,” said Katie to the bartender, gesturing at her glass. “Extra cherries. Three.” Katie held up what she believed to be three fingers, though in fairness, it might have been four. She turned her hand to look at it. Yep. Four. 

Gwenog's look was shrewd as she looked at her newest player, signaling for another shot. “Anything going on there?”

“Where?” asked Katie, glancing behind her.

Gwenog rolled her eyes. “You and Flint?” 

“Nope.” Katie drained her second shot, slamming it back down on the bar. “Not a thing.” 

Her captain wasn't fooled. “We all have our share of fun in our off-time, Bell, but on this team, it's Quaffle before cunny, girl.”

“It's not a problem.” said Katie, looking down at her empty glass. A few more of these drinks, and nothing would be a problem. Not thinking, not feeling...

...not even walking.

…..  
….  
…  
..  
.  
The whole trouble with drinking with Gwenog Jones was eventually, keeping pace with the experienced witch, you were going to get completely knackered. The side effect of becoming completely knackered at the Quidditch Annual Ball was that eventually you were going to need to have a pee in an evening gown, something Katie was not well versed in. In end, she simply gathered up the slinky skirts in one arm and hovered, hanging onto the toilet paper roll and praying it was good and bolted in.

After splashing some cold water on her face, (and fishing out the long-lost olive from her neckline), Katie was making her way back from the loo, smoothing her skirts, when a familiar figure at the end of the lush marble hallway stopped her in her tracks. 

Marcus Flint was slouching against the wall, arms folded and his mouth set in a grim line.

_Wonderful. Perhaps she was in luck and he was waiting on Greengrass._

_But when was she ever in luck these days?_

Katie set her jaw and attempted to edge past him, but his arm thrust suddenly across the opposite end of the wall stopped her. She looked around. No one else in the foyer. 

Damnit. He'd been waiting for _her._

_To admonish her for her bad manners? Unlikely._

“What do you want?” she muttered, refusing to look at him.

He narrowed his eyes. “Maybe one day you'll finally stop asking me that fucking question.” His voice was rough. He'd been drinking. Lovely.

“Maybe one day you'll finally know the fucking answer,” she replied stiffly, bringing up her gaze from the floor to meet his. She'd been drinking too.

He was silent as he looked at her. He might have been angry, but it was difficult to discern. His face had become a door that was locked against her, just like the rest of him. 

It occurred to her, in that moment, that maybe she didn't...hadn't...really known him at all. Wasn't that part of loving someone? Seeing what you wanted to see, skimming over what you didn't?

“Move.” She glared at him.

“No.” Which left her with two options. Make a scene, or hear him out.

She settled for looking away, folding her arms. 

He sighed. “Kat-” 

“Don't.” she snapped.

Marcus pushed off the wall to face her. “You don't even know what I'm going to say.”

“What could you possibly _have_ to say?” she returned. “You've said it all. Congratulations on your upcoming engagement, by the way. It's a match made in Slytherin heaven.”

His eyes narrowed. “Don't be childish.”

_Childish?_

She raised her chin. “You're calling me childish? I don't think you have a fucking leg to stand on in that particular department, do you?” Gwenog's special drinks had apparently made her a bit of a potty mouth.

Marcus let out a laugh, but it was hollow. “You really can't afford to be this naïve,” he snapped. “This shit you're pulling, the people you're running with, you're going to get hurt. Or worse.”

Katie lifted her chin. “Well, lucky you. That isn't your worry any longer, is it? Or any of your business, if we're on the subject. Now, if you'll excuse me-”

Marcus reached out and grabbed her arm as she tried to move past him again, harder than he meant to, but damnit, she couldn't just blow this shit off like she did everything else and trust the invisible good in the world to cushion her fall. 

The touch registered in her eyes, tension and fury in that warm, soft skin, and he felt alive, really alive, for the first time in weeks. He stamped the feeling down and loosened his grip. “This is the way the world works, Katie. You don't have to like it, but you sure as shit should understand it by now.”

Her gaze traveled from his face to the hand on her arm. “Let me go.”

“They'll come for you, and if they can't, they'll go through the people you care about. That's how they work.”

“Well, I guess you'd know, wouldn't you?” 

“If you think-” he began, heatedly.

Katie sighed. “The tragedy in the world isn't that people die, Marcus. It's that they're afraid to live at all. And you're afraid, aren't you? Afraid to step outside your little circle, afraid to be happy-”

“Don't flatter yourself,” snarled Marcus. He still hadn't let go of her arm.

“I meant what I said earlier,” Katie snapped. “You two deserve each other.”

“Kat...Katie. It's not-”

“Just don't...Marcus,” said Katie, looking away, and he saw her lip tremble, just a little, but when she met his eyes again her gaze was as cold and flat as he'd ever seen it. “You were right. We don't make any sense. You need a woman who will make things easy for you. And I need a man who isn't a bloody coward.” 

She jerked her arm from his grasp and this time, he let her go. 

“Katie-”

But she had already ducked into the crowd, leaving Marcus alone in the entryway. 

Marcus stared after her. He out a deep breath and raked a hand through his hair, steadying himself as he walked back into the fray.

 _Coward,_ he whispered.

She was right.  
…..  
….  
…  
..  
.

The rest of the night was a blur, though apparently she'd raised her glass for toasts at all the right times and smiled at all the right people, because Jones was pleased with the Harpies' new sponsorship of the Silvershots, and had said Katie swam well enough with the sharks. 

Katie had to take her Captain's word for it- she'd had to owl Kiran to come and get her at the end of the event, and spent the better part of the night promising herself that she would never drink anything again.

“I'll just tell your brother you needed help out of the dress,” said Kiran, looking the other way as another colorful mix of drink and bile tumbled out of Katie's stomach and onto an innocent topiary. 

Katie wanted to make a quip as to the dress's practically non-existent nature to begin with, but was afraid to open her mouth

“It's that Quidditch player, isn't it? The one that we met at the game?” asked Kiran, winding her arm around his neck. “Marcus?”

_Marcus? Marcus who?_

“'at's th' one,” muttered Katie, the sidewalk swimming. She was too tired, too wrung out to lie anymore. “Don't tell Mox...say I told you so....be disappointed....bad decision...”

“Let's just worry about putting one foot in front of the other, to start,” said Kiran. “There's a girl. Right...left...right...”

After Kiran had hauled her inside, he helped her change into her pajamas and fetched her a glass of water, (which Katie drank down and promptly threw up.) 

Those would be the witch tits, she thought ruefully, remembering the violent shade of green from earlier.

Kiran shook his head, refilled her water glass, and when that glass stayed down, he draped a cool washcloth across the back of her neck and left her to it. 

Katie spent the remainder of her evening in the company of the toilet, throwing up what felt like everything she'd ever eaten in her entire life. The beginning of morning found her blearily resting her chin on the seat and vowing to never, ever, drink anything again that wasn't water.

Here she was, Katie Bell, starting Chaser for the Harpies, young and bright and bold and wrapped around a toilet, all for a horrible boy. No, corrected, Katie, a coward- a lying, cold, callous coward-

Katie's train of thought was once again interrupted as her stomach wrenched what was left into the bowl in front of her.

 _Pathetic,_ the woozy part of her higher brain declared.

“Pathetic,” agreed Katie, speaking to the silence.

_At least he isn't here to see you cry._

Katie rested her cheek on her arm, sniffling.

_Thank Merlin for small favors._


	23. Chapter 23

_Dear Katers,  
Hope you're feeling better today._

_I wish I had some cure-all potion that would make you feel better straight away, but we both know it's not that easy. There's no magic spell that'll wish what you're feeling away, no pill you can take to forget everything about it, no magic words that I can say that will make you feel the least bit better. Well, I suppose there are, but they never work for long. Alas, you're a smart girl, Katie- and the quick remedies never work for the smart ones._

_This would be so much easier if you were daft, you know. I'd feed you a line about 'plenty of fish in the sea', then go out and get you utterly knackered and pick out somebody simple and forgettable to sop up all that sorrow. But you'd sober up, eventually...and feel just as bad in the end, much like you're feeling now, I expect. Trust me from someone who's been there before._

_I'm afraid it's as simple and as terrible as putting one foot ahead of the other and keeping your chin up until the pain passes, and then one day almost without your noticing you'll find it's healed up as well as it can be, and it'll become a scar you look to only when you want reminding of how strong you are when you have to be._

_But you aren't an idiot, Katie. You aren't wrong. It wasn't a mistake._

_Take it from someone who was told his whole life that who he was and who he loved was wrong. If I had listened to them, I never would have been happy- I never would have met your brother. I never would have met you, either, or Mason- my new family. And how terrible is that?_

_The sad part of it all is that you have to keep giving people chances to hurt you, in the interest of finding someone someday that won't._

_Love is never _wrong_ , Katie. Whatever happens, no matter how it is received, if it lasts or if it doesn't, if the person proves worthy of it, or if they don't- love, the _choice_ to love someone is never wrong. So you lent your heart out to someone who didn't know how to treat it properly- well, that's his bloody failing, not yours, and he's the less for it. Not you._

_To embrace a part of the world outside yourself, to invite it in with compassion and understanding instead of hate and fear- how can that be terrible? How can it be foolish? How can it be a mistake?_

_You did a good thing, Katie, despite how it feels now._

_I won't tell your brother, lest he go after the bloke that did it, involve your other brother, and land them both in Azkaban. But come over soon, all right? We miss you, and you're the only one that can beat your brother at Exploding Snap. Twenty-six games in a row now. He's becoming insufferable. I may have to start cheating._

_(Well, cheating **worse**.)_

_Lots of love,  
Kiran_

_p.s. Aspirin and a banana on the counter. Drink lots of water and take a cold shower. Maybe two. Cheers._


	24. Chapter 24

_Marcus,  
Meet me at my flat on Tuesday at noon. We're taking a portkey to the Lake District.   
Best wear comfortable shoes.  
-Kat_

Like so much of Katie's strange world in non-wizarding England, Marcus was unfamiliar with the 'Lake District', though Katie's own enthusiasm for the place had apparently summoned them there that sunny Tuesday afternoon. Their family, Katie explained, as she packed up a large wicker hamper, had set up their own portkey to the place long ago. The portkey turned out to be a very old, tarnished copper bucket now stashed in the corner of Katie's flat. They hadn't gone much since her father died, she said, blowing off a cobweb.

Katie had dressed in layers- a dark grey cowlneck sweater under the jacket he'd bought her, with dark leggings and a red plaid skirt that reminded him of the Gryffindor house fashions. She'd also worn a pair of very old, scuffed leather boots that laced up to her knees. Hiking boots, she explained.

On the whole, he was definitely coming to prefer Muggle fashions over wizarding ones, he thought, watching the skirt swish as she walked.

Not sure of what one wore to the 'Lake District', Marcus had chosen an old grey jumper, a pair of muggle denims courtesy of Katie, and a pair of very comfortable trainers, and hoped to hell it held up to whatever Katie had planned for them.

“We used to go for picnics in the Lake District once a month if the weather was nice enough,” said Katie, adjusting the now packed large wicker picnic hamper at her side. Marcus had offered to carry the heavy-looking hamper several times, but Katie had waved him off, giving him the task of hauling a rolled plaid felt blanket and an overlarge green thermos instead, both of which came equipped with straps as well. “Mum'd make up a fantastic spread, and each of us got to take a turn in choosing a spot to spend the day. Mox and Mason usually picked the lake, but Dad and I always chose the falls. We'd watch the clouds, stuff our faces, watch clouds, make up silly games...we always had a lovely time. Once we rented boats, and Mason brought a book of the most horrible poetry and kept reciting, well, yelling it, really, it until Mox threw it in the lake.” She laughed. “Wonder if it's still there."

She glanced over at him. "Did you family ever do anything like that?”

“Not really.” Flint Manor was practically a preserve unto itself with ample grounds several kilometers across, including a small lake stocked with fish, a sprawling set of gardens, and a stream-fed forest for hunting wild game, not that any Flint had attempted such a tiresome and common feat in generations. He had often walked the grounds with his mother and sister, and explored the estate by himself, but had never actually seen his father set foot on the grass. The idea of his entire family spread out on a picnic blanket, counting clouds...Mox tried to imagine it a moment and gave up. 

Many Pureblood families were tied to their estates and rarely left them, (other Pureblood estates being the exception), if for no other reason than a desire not to mix with the 'common' rabble (or worse, Muggles.)

“Well, you've missed out then,” Katie continued. “But you're in luck! I'm taking you to Aira Force today. It was always my favorite spot.” 

Marcus had long ago stopped asking Katie what muggle things were and had simply resigned himself to finding out in due time. It was half the fun of following her around. 

The other half being the view as she led him around.

Katie slipped the hamper strap across her shoulders, pulling the basket up between her shoulder blades. “You've worn comfortable trainers, right?” 

Marcus soon understood the reason for the strap on the picnic basket and Katie's suggestion of comfortable shoes. The area was quite large, with long paths carved through forests with towering firs and beautifully maintained glens. Clouds drifted lazily overhead, painting shadows across the valley.

Marcus looked around, feeling for his wand in his back pocket. The Lake District was not a place any self-respecting Death Eater was likely to frequent, but from the wand sticking through Katie's belt loop, it was not a possibility she had completely ruled out, either.

It was a pleasant afternoon, made more pleasant by the sun-soaked image of Katie on the trail ahead of him, talking about her family and their many trips to the area, many of which involved some sort of disaster or another revolving around Mason. Katie described days spent splashing in the water, gorging themselves on sandwiches and lemonade, rowing boats and yelling lewd limericks back and forth at one another, (much to the chagrin of her mother), and one particularly exciting afternoon, when Mason had accidentally hit a wasp's nest with a cricket mallet, which was spent mostly covered in ice packs and cooling charms while devouring her mother's famous eighteen layer chocolate cake as they nursed their wounds.

“We're almost there!” 

Marcus wasn't sure where 'there' was, but he hoped it involved food and sitting down. He was still sore from last week's match against the Tornadoes, and had bruises the size of grapefruits on his right thigh from two very well-aimed bludgers.

Katie turned suddenly, breaking into a smile at the sight of him trailing behind. "We're here!"

Marcus stopped.

Sunlight slanted through the trees where Katie was standing, dancing off the golden flecks in her eyes. Hair escaped her plait, framing her face. Katie held nothing back in her smiles- they seemed to light her from within.

Flint Manor was home to several old tapestries, sculptures, and paintings, and Marcus, (mostly while hiding from his father), had become extremely familiar with all of them. Escaping one punishment or another, Marcus had often hid away quietly in the many cold, drafty rooms of the mansion and stared at the paints and threads for hours, trying to divine the stories behind them (and escape his own thoughts in the process).

His particular favorite had been a painting simply entitled 'The Hunt'. It was a large oil painting encased in a golden frame, a curious, colorful mix of blood and sex. 

It featured what Marcus guessed was Artemis, goddess of the hunt. She stood in all her glory before a hapless huntsman on his knees in front of her, an arrow protruding from his chest and his bow laying on the ground beside him, useless. The huntsman was staring in awe up at the goddess, struck dumb by the arrow or the sight of her, Marcus was never sure. 

The goddess, by contrast, offered the hunter a small, strange smile as she gazed down, one hand wrapped around her golden bow, the fingertips of her other hand reaching to rest delicately on the arrow's fletching as it protruded from the hunter's chest. Whether the goddess was going to take pity on the hunter and withdraw the arrow, or drive it deeper, Marcus was never able to divine.

In moments like these, Katie reminded him of that silent, smug goddess in the wood- painfully lovely...with all the power to destroy him. 

Power he'd given her, somewhere along the way. 

Marcus wondered how often he wore that same gormless expression as the huntsman, staring at her.

_He wondered if he was wearing it now._

“C'mon, lazy bones, catch up!” Katie called behind her.

Marcus heard the falls before he saw them- a small, silver stream slipping over the rock-choked drop, growing larger and louder as they approached. An old stone bridge stretched over the falls, empty save for some creeping moss.

Suddenly, Katie came to a stop, setting down the hamper down and reaching into the pockets of her denims. “Lunchtime! But first, we've got to visit the Wish Tree.”

“The Wish Tree?” he repeated. 

Marcus looked around, his eyes finally coming to rest on a long, gnarled old stump studded with silver coins. The coins had been hammered in so closely together they almost resembled dragon scales. 

Katie passed him one of the muggle coins she'd fished from her pocket. Marcus examined it, still not quite used to muggle money. 

“So, you take the coin, and you find a rock and you hammer it into the tree, and the legend has it, the spirit will grant you one wish in exchange.”

He raised an eyebrow. “A wish?”

“Yep.” Katie had already selected a gap in the stump and was tapping in her coin. “Make it a good one. Nothing pervy, Flint,” she added, over her shoulder.

Katie, having taken Care of Magical Creatures, knew as well as Marcus that anything living in a tree was more liable to fuck with you than grant your wishes, but Marcus was getting used to Katie's 'glass half-full' philosophy.

Marcus turned the coin around in his fingers, trying to remember when he had believed in something as simple as wishing.

_It had been a very long time._

Having apparently made her wish, Katie had taken the blanket and was draping it out over the ground under a little tree. 

Marcus looked at the coin for a moment, before finding a small gap in the bark and tapping it into the stump. 

Katie had finished smoothing out the blanket by the time he returned to her. “Why don't you get the picnic basket set up? I'll be right back.” 

Though he'd never had an outdoor meal that wasn't already prepared and laid out by house elves by the time he arrived, Marcus was familiar with the _idea_ of arranging food. Opening the hamper, he took out the items one by one and laid them on the blanket. Katie had been busy. There were cheese and tomato sandwiches, some sort of cold noodle salad, a large stem of shiny, fat purple grapes, a small plastic container with olives in seasoned oil, and two plastic containers with two neatly cut slices of chocolate cake with little candied raspberries pressed into the frosting. Marcus unscrewed the cap of the thermos and took a sniff- it was some sort of fruit wine that smelled...and tasted...like strawberries.

“All set?” Came Katie's voice behind him.

“Yeah. Looks good, thanks.” After an hour long morning practice and a four mile hike, Marcus would have happily eaten a pair of boots, and his stomach growled as he made himself comfortable on the blanket, tucking into the cheese and tomato sandwiches with gusto. He was halfway through his second sandwich before Katie joined him on the blanket. He handed her a sandwich, and they fell into a companionable silence for a few minutes, eating, looking at the waterfall, and listening to the wind rustle through the trees. After polishing off his portion of the noodle salad and the olives, Marcus stretched out and leaned back against the trunk.

Katie unscrewed the thermos, and took a sip of the wine before passing it to him. “What do you think? Of this place?”

New as he was to this idea of 'relationships', Marcus knew it was an significant question, one that had to be answered carefully. 

She had taken him to a place that was important to her, one that held a lot of happy memories for her and her family. Marcus had his own havens, growing up, and they were valuable- not something shared lightly. Marcus wanted to tell her that he understood that it was important, that he appreciated her bringing him here, for sharing this place with him.

“It's nice.” was what came out, and Marcus winced internally at his stupidly simple answer. 

But Katie smiled. “Glad you think so,” she said.

As Marcus took another sip out of the thermos, Katie opened up the plastic boxes containing the fancy cakes and passed him his piece. The icing was thick and sweet, and the candied berries tart, and Marcus had wolfed down his piece long before Katie had finished hers.

She rolled her eyes at him. “Pig,” she joked.

“You going to eat all that cake?” he asked, scooting closer.

“Yep.” As if to emphasize her point, she licked her fork. Slowly.

Marcus rolled his eyes and leaned back against the trunk of the tree. Katie smiled, still holding her box of cake, and swiped her finger through the icing. Used to Katie's mischief, Marcus tensed and braced his hand on the blanket, ready to flip her over, which was when he noticed the second thing. The leggings Katie had worn on their trek through the trials were conspicuously absent. Instead, her legs were bare, the boots she'd had on sloppily unlaced and socks askew. As Katie inched forward on her knees, the skirt swayed, revealing the tops of her thighs.

Marcus's mind roused from his satiated stupor. Was she not wearing-

Dazed, Marcus was rendered immobile as Katie took her thumb and smeared frosting across his lip, settling her legs on either side of his hips. “What'd you wish for, Marcus?” she whispered, her lips brushing his ear.

Before he could answer, she kissed him, open-mouthed, her lips and tongue swiping away the frosting, and as he sat forward he tasted chocolate, and warmth, and Katie.

He cupped the back of her head and kissed her again, trailing his other hand down her waist and pulling her down into his lap. She sank down eagerly against him, grinding, and he moaned, breaking the kiss and burying his head into her shoulder.

He moved his hand under her skirt, and found- 

-nothing. No knickers. 

_Just Katie._

“Fuck,” he muttered, and he heard her laugh. “Do-”

“Don't worry. I've set wards,” she said, anticipating that he was worried about someone walking by. Truthfully, that had been the farthest thing from his mind.

Marcus moved to sit up fully, to lay her down on the blanket and wrap her legs around his head, but the hand on his chest stopped him. 

“Marcus. Stay.” she said, quietly.

That word again. So simple, and yet-

-and then her lips were on his ear, his neck, that same hand drifting down his chest, over the buckle on his denims, working it lose and freeing him. He was already hard, but too turned on to be embarrassed as she grinned at him. 

Katie pulled up his shirt and laid kisses along his chest, his stomach, lower- and-

“Katie.” He shuddered.

“Shhhh,” she said, and took him into her mouth.

It was the first time she had done this to him- to be fair, it was the first time he had let her get this far. She had made timid forays into that territory before, but he had always distracted her from it. To him, it had always seemed like the sort of thing women did not because they actually liked it, but because men did, and he never wanted Katie to act out of obligation. There was also the fact that he knew   
Katie had very little experience before him, and he didn't want to push her. 

“Katie.” he said, and gently squeezed her shoulder. She pulled up, looking confused, and a little perturbed. “You don't have to-”

“Marcus?”

“What?”

“Just shut up,” she said, and went back to what she was doing. 

Marcus took a gulp of air and craned his head back against the trunk of the tree, his trembling hand buried in her hair as he tried to remember how to breathe, his other hand sunk into the dirt, trying to find something to hold onto. 

Later, sprawled out on their backs, their hands intertwined, their lips swollen and stained with strawberry wine, Katie rolled on her side to face him. They were half tucked into the blankets, the picnic hamper and its contents scattered across the grass. 

Marcus combed his fingers through Katie's loose hair, strands sliding like silk through his fingers. The sun was going down, scattering shadows on her skin as it set. He kissed her, then, slowly, all the urgency having bled out of him earlier. 

And there was that smile again as he pulled back, only this time, he didn't feel as if it would shatter him.

“What was it what you wished for?” She asked again, softly, and Marcus knew it was a different sort of question from the one she had asked earlier.

He was a breath away from telling her that- 

“Mr. Flint.”

Marcus blinked, and his mind cleared. He felt the chill of Flint manor and knew at once he was months and miles from the scene of that particularly happy afternoon.

 _From her._

The fathomless eyes of his father's house elf met him in the window's icy reflection, the elf's bow managing to be low and mocking at the same time. 

“Master's son may be interested to know that the others have arrived.”

Further down the hall, Marcus saw a line of dark cloaks drifting towards the dining room.

Marcus turned from the window, his hands behind his back. “Tell them I'm coming.”

…..  
….  
…  
..  
.

The flat used to be a storage area for the tea shop downstairs, before the owner decided to move his inventory into the basement and convert the upper space into a rentable unit. 

And as much as Katie missed her former teammates on the Cannons, she loved her new space in Hogsmeade, which she'd only been able to afford on a Harpies salary. It was nearly three times the size of her previous flat, had ample cabinet space, and had a fully functioning loo. The herbs and spices of the teas seemed to have soaked into the wood of the walls, filling the space with unexpected but pleasant scents. 

The one bedroom flat was actually quite large- it was effectively a two-story space with a loft upstairs and an open kitchen and living room downstairs, complete with fireplace and a cozy reading nook. Katie had set up her bedroom in the open loft and left the bedroom with the door for guests, piling on colorful quilts form Nanna Bell at night to keep out the early spring chill. Nampa Bell had made her a rocking chair as a gift years ago, and Katie had set it near the single large window in the room, where she read her books and drank her tea, watching the dwindling foot traffic below. It was her favorite spot in the whole flat. 

Katie leaned up against the window frame, staring down at the streets below. 

A stray sheet of newspaper tumbled down the sidewalk, dancing down towards the shops, whose windows had all been boarded up.

The streets were empty now, but Katie told herself one day she'd be watching children race up and down those same streets, couples with their hands clasped and laughing, kissing, and groups of friends chattering noisily as they made their way to whatever shops and pubs were their final destination. One day, the war would be over, and the world would slowly heal itself whole. 

Till then, this small space was her one refuge from reality.

Sophie loved the place, too, right down to the ceiling beams. It was not unusual to see the cat's tail twitching lazily from above, and Wink could usually be found in the rocking chair, trilling away happily.

Her bath was almost finished running- Katie could smell the lilac-scented soap bubbles rising from the tub. Today's practice had been particularly harsh, and she had several knots that needed easing. She'd added a few drops of Circine's Tonic to the water to help relax her tired limbs, along with Fred and George's WonderWitch aromatherapy bath bubbles, which changed colors and scents every few minutes. Genius, those two. Not that she would ever tell them so- their skulls were thick enough already.

To aid the tonic, Katie had also poured herself a large glass of wine. There was no Order business tonight, and she intended to get a full night of sleep, if she could.

Katie was just testing a toe in the water when she heard a knock at the door. She tensed, looking for her wand, then forced herself to relax. Probably a parcel- maybe the new quills she'd ordered- they could leave it at the door. 

Dangerous thing, opening the door these days. 

Rechecking her wards, Katie lay her wand on top of the bathroom sink.

Dropping her towel, Katie eased her foot in up to the knee, the hot, perfumed water climbing her sore muscles in bubbly, liquid bliss, the water carrying the scent of gardenia, now, her favorite-

The knock sounded again. And again. Louder. This late, it was either a Death Eater or a door-to-door saleswizard.

Making a huffing noise,Katie withdrew her foot, shrugged into her fluffy blue bathrobe and tied it tightly, then stalked to the door, muttering. Grabbing her wand from the sink, she stashed it up the sleeve of her robe, the tip gripped in her hand so it could be dropped down quickly. 

“Who is it?”

“Lupin,” came the weary reply. “You earned an E in my Defense Against the Dark Arts class. Your patronus is a cheetah.”

Verifying her old professor's face in the peephole, Katie pulled open the door.

“Lupin, come in! What's-?”

“It's your brother,” he said, his face grim. 

“What? I-”

“It's Mox. I'm sorry, Katie. You'll have to come now.”

“What's happened? Is he all right?”

Remus's expression was her answer.


	25. Chapter 25

**Daily Prophet: Aderes Vance, younger sister of Emmaline Vance, was found murdered today...**

St. Mungos...waiting...just waiting....

_...Auror Bastion Meadowes injured in the attack...as well as Mox Bell, Guardian Class Five of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures was transferred to St. Mungos...conditions or circumstances have not been released at this time..._

_Kingsley and Remus standing outside the hospital room with Meadowes, talking in hushed tones._

"-Dolohov killed Vance outright, tried to Kedavra me too and then Macnair nailed Bell with something when he tried to go for Aderes. Macnair always had it out for Mox- always hated each other, those two, when they were at the Ministry together. Bell stunned Macnair but he had Aderes over his shoulder and Macnair hit him again, I couldn't see with what, but it tore through his shield charm, crumpled him like some damned marionette with the strings cut, and then Macnair put the Dementors on 'em, and I couldn't....it was..nothin' I could do, for either of 'em, I had three of 'em on me myself-" 

"You did everything you could, Meadowes," said Remus, but the man just shook his head, wiping his hand across his face. 

"And Aderes, she was dead already, no point in...I only just grabbed Bell and disapparated...happened so bloody fast, it was like...like they were **expecting** us, like they knew we'd be there, hexed us like ducks in a row-" 

"-there's a traitor in our midst, Kingsley...and probably more than one..." 

“Has anybody been able to reach Mason?”

“No...he's unreachable, likely will be for the next month. They went in deep this time.”

Katie turned from the door.

Morganna Bell was sobbing, holding Mox's cold and unresponsive hand, numb to the Healer's hand on her shoulder, telling her to step back so that he could tend to him-

Katie walked towards her. “Mom, you have to move, they're trying to help him-”

At Katie's touch, Morganna stepped back, the hand she had been holding falling limply to the cot. 

-Kiran, his eyes as glazed as Mox's, staring blankly down at the body...

“no-my little boy....my little boy...”

And Mox, his eyes open and expressionless, his chest rising and falling mechanically, like the machine that had kept their father alive...

For a moment, Katie saw her father there next to him, hooked up to tubes and wires, and she had to turn away. 

Earlier, the Healers had bustled in and out, setting charms, administering tonics, but soon, their presence slowed to a trickle. 

There was nothing that could be done. 

Katie paced the room, the halls, restless. She knew if she stopped, that pain would settle- and she was afraid the force of it might paralyze her completely.

Katie paced the room. She hated being back in this place again- she could hear the Healer's words over her, their voices grating and grim, the same way they now hovered over her brother-

Well, they were wrong, weren't they? And they were wrong about her brother. They had to be.

_They had to be._

But Katie had only been cursed. Her brother was worse than dead.

Katie had always hated hospitals, ever since her father's death. There was a kind of hushed sterility about them- the air was always cold and sharp with antiseptic. Katie was no fan of St. Mungos either- the gleaming halls brought back memories of pain and frustration and fear that sunk as deep as the marks in her arm. Though the nightmares of the experience had faded with time, the scars had stayed. 

But Mox's scars...they were soul-deep, not skin-deep.

Katie tuned out of her own thoughts to listen to the Healer speaking to Kiran, his voice grim..."Long term, we may want to move him up to the fourth floor, where he can be made more comfortable-"

"No," replied Kiran, his eyes red-rimmed and his voice quiet and hoarse. "No, no, I'll take him home with me. He'll like to have his things...to be at home with his things...with the animals..."

Katie knew the Healer didn't have the heart to contradict him. And neither did she.

Katie's eyes flickered over to her mother, who was staring as dully as Mox at the opposite wall, and knew she wasn't taking a single thing in, either. 

The Healer walked out, and the now familiar sterile silence descended on the room. 

Katie touched Kiran's arm. "Kiran. Take Mum home and get some sleep. I'll stay with him overnight.”

Kiran turned and stared at her, uncomprehending. 

Katie touched his arm. "I'll stay here with him, Kiran. Take Mum home. I'll call on you if anything changes.” 

Kiran blinked. 

She leaned closer, tightening her grip on his arm. “Kiran, I'll stay with him. Go home and take care of the animals. He'd want you to."

It had been almost forty-eight hours. There had been no change. 

There would be no change.

Kiran walked out of the room as if sleepwalking, dazed...Morganna Bell trailing along on his arm, beyond grief...beyond hope.

Katie closed the curtains around the bed, then took a damp cloth and draped it across Mox's forehead.

The brother in front of her was not one she recognized. Mox had always been tall, towering, skin tanned from working outdoors, his dark hair always long and clean and tied back neatly in a ponytail. 

Now, he seemed shrunken into the sheets, diminished, almost child-like. They'd cut his hair down to the scalp to attach monitoring charms to his temples. His eyes were open, glassy, a thin trail of spittle gathering at the corner of his mouth, which Katie quickly wiped away. 

This man, no, this sunken shell, was very nearly unrecognizable from the man she'd grown up knowing.

They were still unable to reach Mason, and no one could be spared to go. Where he was, Lupin said, it was madness to send an owl. They would have to wait. Katie almost envied her brother, somewhere at the edge of the world, blissfully unaware of the state of things.

Katie considered herself to be close to both her brothers, but Mox had always been different- less a sibling and more a second surrogate father, more so after their own died. There were pictures of Mox with Katie as a baby, tossing her in the air as she giggled, Mox patiently pulling her in a wagon with all her stuffed toys, a picture of both of them fast asleep in front of the fire with a book open between them. 

Whereas Mason had put frogs in her pillowcases and locked her out of his bedroom, Mox had always played witches and warlocks with her, crouched into her tiny chairs and sipped imaginary tea, let her tag along with his friends without complaint, and had cleaned up her many skinned knees, bloody noses, and lumps from her first forays into broom-riding. Mox had stepped without hesitation into role of parent after their father died and their mother became a ghost herself, making sure Katie had enough money for books, keeping track of her marks at school, and attending every Quidditch match he could. Like her father, Mox had become a pillar holding up her world. And now, like their father, he was gone, too.

No, Mox had not died, but Katie found herself wishing he were so lucky. 

He was worse than dead. He was a shell of flesh and bone and shadows that would never speak, never smile, never walk again. 

Katie had told herself she had been prepared to lose her family to war, to death. It was a lie, of course, but it was a lie she could have healed around, given time.

But not this. 

Katie sat by her brother's beside for hours, or perhaps it was days, or years, or an eternity, her heart full to bursting, but the tears would not come, or sleep. Only anger came, and restlessness, and she paced the room looking for a direction for those feelings to go. 

_It won't end like this. It can't._

Mox had been as calm and collected as Katie was brash and outspoken, but both had shared the same streak of stubbornness that their father had carried, a grim determination that at times defied reason and responsibility in the same place where both Mason and Morganna Bell carried reason and sense and an enduring, seemingly unending patience.

Katie stood and looked down at her brother for a long time, holding his limp hand in hers. She added blankets to the bed and tucked them around him, as he used to do for her. 

And she made up her mind.

As the night waned on, she sat by her brother's bedside and wrote a series of letters, sealing them up one after the other. 

It was against her mother's wishes and Kiran's advice that Katie accompanied Fred and George to the Order's new headquarters the next day...but she knew that Mox would have understood.

And Katie knew their father would have, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm afraid it gets darker before it gets lighter, friends.


	26. Chapter 26

_Marcus,_

_I'm writing this letter with the foolish hope that you'll read it and not throw it away. If you've gotten this far, I suppose it's a good sign- I hope it means you'll keep on reading._

_You might have heard what's happened to Mox. If you haven't...I'm going to get my brother back._

_Well...I should say that I'm going to try. I don't know what's going to happen, (who does?) but there's a very good chance I won't be coming back at all. If that happens, I need you to give these notes to my family and friends._

_Not before- they'd try to stop me._

_But not you._

_I realize now how different we are- and how little I understood about the way you were raised, the life you've lead, the things that were expected of you. We are very different people, Marcus, planted in entirely different soils and expected to grow up into two entirely different things. But I think you'd understand about this. At least, I hope you do...and if you don't, you'll humor me._

_You might say it's foolish to hope, to try, and maybe you're right, but without hope, without trying, what else is there? If I take my hope away, if I don't try, I'm not sure what's left, besides a world I'm not sure I want to live in._

_If you ever cared, even a little- no matter what side of the war we've wound up on, please, just do this one thing for me. If the boy who brought back Sophie on the train that day is in there, even just a little, I hope you'll find it in yourself to help me one last time._

_If the worst should come to pass, make sure my family and friends get these letters. That's all I'm asking._

_And- please take care of yourself, Marcus._

_-Katie_


	27. Chapter 27

_Katers,_  
Meeting this week, usual time. Patronus will stop round and update you on place. Bring food, butterbeer, and the items we discussed at last meeting.   
Love from,  
Your loyal fans,  
Gred and Forge 

…..  
….  
…  
..  
.

They said that the new temporary quarters for the Order of the Phoenix was an improvement over the last one, but if that was true, Katie privately felt that the last place must have been an absolute dump. The new place was an abandoned restaurant building that had been set up to look like an old pie shoppe whose 'open' sign constantly read “Closed: Thank you for your loyal patronage!”

Inside, the building was no more remarkable- a few chairs surrounded an old Formica counter top and in the back, there were some old trays and plates and a muggle coffee maker that worked when it felt like it. Chipped coffee cups were scattered around from the meeting, and in the corner, a magical fire did its best to warm the cold space.

Katie had come with the twins with the aim of arranging the next episode of Potterwatch, for which she helped to run security while the boys were broadcasting. There was also the matter of speaking to Professor Lupin, which Katie planned to do after the meeting.

After catching up on the usual depressing news of the day, which involved the deaths of Ted Tonks, Dirk Cresswell, and the goblins with whom they had apparently been traveling, the group moved on to the planning session. Tonks was understandably absent from the meeting, owing to the death of her father. Katie felt a pang of sadness for the young woman- Ted Tonks had been a very decent man, and as her own mother and Andromeda had been close friends, (both being outcasts from high wizarding society), Katie had known their family fairly well.

Tonks had been to visit Mox several times over the past few weeks, always bringing a singing card and once, a pot of honking tulips that had to be silenced after the second day by an irritated Healer. Tonks had sat quietly for quite some time during each visit, holding Mox's hand, and she did not tell Katie that everything was going to be all right, like so many others, which Katie appreciated.

"-as I've said, the Floo Network is currently unusable, and owls are easily intercepted and killed with no way to tell who intercepted them, or often, if they arrive at their destinations at all in the same condition we've sent them." Kingsley was saying, a grave look on his face. "We can't afford tampering, not after Little Whinging.”

"Apparition?" asked Bill.

"Too far," replied Kingsley, "And this particular item doesn't work with apparition- it's steeped in old magic, journey magic. The only course of delivery looks to be by broom."

"We can't risk any of the Order members right now," said Mr. Weasley. "You can put a trace on an owl, we could-"

"This can't be intercepted," said Remus. "McGonagall was adamant on that particular point."

"We could-" started George.

"Absolutely not," snapped Mrs. Weasley.

"But-" began Fred.

“No!” Their mother looked close to tears, but according to Fred and George, this was nothing new these days. "You're already risking your necks for that foolish wireless program, I won't have you-"

"I'll do it," Katie found herself saying quietly. "I'll be the messenger."

The twins looked at her in surprise, and they were not the only ones.

Kingsley lifted an eyebrow. "I am afraid, Miss Bell, that is out of the question.”

"Why? I'm the best flier in the room that's not already on something else."

"It is not a question of skill," said the Auror. "It is a question of-"

She lifted her chin. "I'm of age. I'm not a child."

Kingsley studied her for a moment. "No," he said quietly. "You aren't."

"I'll contact McGonagall, then," said Remus. "Pack for a long trip, at least one day by broom."

Katie blinked. One day's travel by broom? Where on earth was she going?

Fred was still taking notes. Kingsley turned to him and George.

"Potterwatch, then, on the tenth?"

"We're on," replied the twins. "Lee's out scouting a new broadcasting place as we speak, we'll send you the details in the usual way."

"We'll see you Thursday, then Katie, and Fred and George on the tenth, same time as last.” 

The three recognized their dismissal. The Order was having separate meetings increasingly lately, to prevent any one person from knowing more than they should and putting them all at greater risk.

"Please tell Tonks she's in my thoughts, Professor Lupin," said Katie, gathering her bag. Fred and George had walked ahead, pulling on their coats.

"I've told you, 'Remus' is fine, Katie." said the older man. "But I will. Thank you.” The older man hesitated. “About your brother...Mox is always in our thoughts-"

“Profess- Remus, I have to ask you-”

Remus sighed, his weary expression hinting that he knew what she was about to ask. “Katie, no one wishes more than I that I could be of some help, but-”

Katie leaned against the doorway. “He's still out there. I know it. If I can find the dementor that took him-”

Remus shook his head. “Katie, there has never been a known case-”

“No one had survived the killing curse, either, before Harry,” replied Katie stubbornly.

“That is different. Lily's love, her life, cast between him and harm, like a shield-”

“If love can be a shield, then it can be a sword, too.” said Katie stubbornly, lifting her chin. “I have to try. He's my brother...my family. Can't you understand that?” Her voice wavered, but she stamped it down, balling her hands into fists and steadying herself. “I have to try, at least.”

Lupin's expression was grave. “You are grieving, I understand-”

Katie tied her scarf around her neck with a swift jerk. “No, Professor. You don't. If he were dead, it would be different. I could face that. We all could. But this...if you can't help me, I'm going to find someone who can.” said Katie, turning to leave.

Lupin touched her shoulder. “I will speak to McGonagall. Perhaps...an old contact of Dumbledore's....Flitwick would know how to reach her. I am sorry I cannot do more. Mox was- he is, an exemplary young man.”

“Thank you, Prof... thank you Lupin.”

As Remus walked back in and moved to shut the door, she heard Kingsley's voice. "She's too young. Too inexperienced."

"They're all too young, Kingsley: Harry, Ron, Fred, George, the lot of them..”

“-but it isn't as if we have a surplus of members, is it...and our little list is growing shorter by the day."

As Katie followed the twins out the back door, she heard Remus's voice respond, and it was sounding close to defeated.

"In these dark times, Molly, I am afraid we must face the prospect of seeing our young people grow up a little sooner than we would like...if, indeed, they are to grow up at all."

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"You don't have to do this, you know, Katie," said George, zipping up his jacket in the cold, empty foyer.

"What, you think I can't handle it, either?" she returned heatedly, causing the twins to back up, hands raised in defense.

"It's not that," said George. "It's just...well, it's dangerous, Katie, the lot of it, and it...isn't going to..."

"I know it won't make my brother better," snapped Katie. "But I won't sit by and do nothing while everyone else I care about risk their necks. I can't wait at his bedside as the war goes on around me. I won't. And he wouldn't want me to."

Fred grinned. "She's always been stubborn, our Katie. Besides, you know what they say, Forge," he said, sighing. "In for a nut, in for a galleon."

"True enough, Gred," replied his brother, but he was looking at Katie when he said it, and his expression was more serious than normal.

Katie reached into her pocket, handing Fred the extra key to her flat. "Take care of Sophie and Wink while I'm away, won't you?"  
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Katie had received the visitor Lupin had promised at midnight. Well, three visitors, really; all silvery cats that ghosted into her foyer, tails twitching. From Katie's lap, Sophie sat up and hissed, and Katie nearly jumped out of her skin as they materialized out of nowhere.

Each cat spoke in a rather stern, familiar voice, then vanished into silver vapour.

"Hogsmeade.

“Field post seven.”

“9am. Tell no one.”

Katie spent the better part of half an hour cleaning up the cup of cocoa she'd spilled all over her couch.

Eight hours later, Katie was sitting the stone fence that separated the village of Hogsmeade from a seemingly abandoned farmer's field, fully packed for her trip and holding her wand at the ready beneath her coat.

A real, live cat was walking along the same stone wall, carefully picking its way toward her. Katie ignored it at first, until it sat down a few feet from her, tail twitching as it looked around. It had a curious set of markings around its eyes, rather like a set of spectacles...

"Professor McGonagall?" whispered Katie.

With a twist and shudder of motion, the cat lengthened into the familiar form of her old Transfiguration teacher. Katie found the process as impressive as she had her first year. "Miss Bell," she said, nodding as she held out a piece of paper. "Memorise this address, please. Do not repeat it out loud or ask any questions regarding this information."

Tucking away her wand, Katie unfolded the paper and read the message:

_Charlie Weasley  
Gheorgheni, Romania, (5 miles east) Look for the red light. _

Katie repeated the information to herself a few times before handing the note back to McGonagall, who took out her wand, whispered 'incendio', and reduced the paper to ash.

"Do you have it memorised?" asked her former professor.

"Yes."

"Good," said McGonagall. “About your...inquiry. I have spoken to Professor Flitwick on behalf of Remus. I do not wish to get your hopes up, but he had one person to recommend.” Her former head of house held out a small piece of parchment, but drew it back slightly when Katie reached for it.

"I hardly need impress on you, Miss Bell, the danger of this mission, to say nothing of your own personal undertaking. You must not be intercepted.”

"No, Professor McGonagall," replied Katie.

The older woman pursed her lips and held out the piece of paper to Katie again. 

“View it later,” said her former Professor. “After the errand.”

“And burn it afterwards?” asked Katie. 

“If you like,” replied McGonagall, airily. “Though this is not an individual a Death Eater is likely to seek out, whatever her allegiance.”

Katie thanked her, tucking the piece of parchment under the brace on her forearm, a series of leather straps that secured her wand for easy access while she was flying. It belonged to Mox, had been on him when he was transferred to St. Mungos. She told herself she was only borrowing it. For luck.

“And this...person, with whom you are dealing...take in everything she says with extreme caution. If she chooses to advise you, it will not be with consideration for your safety."

“I will.”  
"And you will need this," continued McGonagall, handing Katie what looked like an empty jam jar. "It is as important, if not more so, than the message you are delivering. Charlie will know what to do with it."

Katie nodded, tucking the jar inside her coat and hoping her nerves weren't showing. 

McGonagall pulled her cloak more tightly around her and glanced behind her before fixing Katie with her steely glare once again. "Kingsley has, I think, instructed you to send your patronus should anything go wrong?"

"Yes." The older Auror had spent a considerable amount of time teaching Katie, Fred, George and Lee how to conjure a corporeal, speaking patronus, building on the skills Harry had already taught them in DA.

Reaching in her coat pocket, Katie handed McGonagall a note. “I know Professor Lupin told me not to tell anyone else about the mission, but if I...if something should happen, would you make sure that my family receives this?”

“Of course.” McGonagall started to say something else, but apparently thought better of it. "Good journey to you, then, Miss Bell," she said, and with a twist of her form, the same cat with spectacle-markings trotted off down the alley.

When the cat had faded entirely from view, Katie reached into the brace and took a peek at the other piece of parchment.

“Morwen Zmeya....Pripet Marshes- second marker past the first fence post. Look for the goat. Be careful.”

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Katie had dressed in layers: an old Quidditch vest under her favourite jumper, old denims, and a long hooded wool sweater Nanna Bell had knitted that zipped up to her chin. She'd hesitated, then finally pulled on the jacket Marcus had given her. It was, after all, her best coat.

Katie had put ample cushioning charms on her Firebolt and had affixed the compass Chadov had given her to her handle, but this was, hands down, the longest trip she had ever taken by broom. 

Katie took a deep breath, checked that her rucksack was firmly affixed to her broom, then shot off, setting her heading for Romania.

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	28. Chapter 28

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Katie leaned forward on her broom, fighting to keep her eyes open. Even in early March, the icy winds of winter still clung to the air, and though she had pulled her hood over her head and wrapped her old Gryffindor scarf around her mouth, she could still feel the chill in her bones.

Rather than focus on the thoughts that haunted her at present, Katie spent her down time thinking about what Kinglsey had said, about 'journey magic'. They'd studied what Flitwick had called the 3 Lost Magics in Charms, which related to old, nearly obscure magic that was quite powerful, but less used in modern times due to its potency and time-intensive requirements: blood magic, dream magic, and journey magic. Blood magic referred to those spells that used the body as a kind of passage to conduct the magic and its purpose. This kind of magic, Flitwick had said, was the kind that had spawned spells like the Unbreakable Vow, and the kind that could cast the most potent forms of protection- but at high prices. Dream magic was steeped in oral tradition and operated in the unconscious- this magic had been largely abandoned because of the kind of substances needed to achieve the desired state were extremely dangerous, and often had deadly or lasting consequences; ie, the caster didn't always wake up. Journey magic, Flitwick had said, was the most complex type of lost magic, and the least understood- like wand and wandlore, the potency of a spell in the case of journey magic relied solely on the experience and the tenacity of the wizard, and took the longest to achieve results, making it impractical in most needful situations.

Little though Katie understood her current mission, she understood that the mind-numbing hours she was spending on the broom was an integral part of the spell...even though it didn't mean she had to like it. 

The last thing she really needed was to be alone with her thoughts.

She'd set another cushioning charm an hour ago, for all the good it did her back- what had started out as a slight pain around her hips was now a full-fledged throb. 

Her right side was still slightly weak, making her put more pressure on her left arm and shoulder over long periods, which was also beginning to strain. 

Katie had also cast a disillusionment charm before she set off, and cast it poorly, by the looks of it- large bits of it were already beginning to wear off, and in an hour, it would vanish completely. She'd find an area to touch down before that, re-cast the charm, and get another long stretch in.

She checked her compass, then her hand, where she'd charmed a small-scale scrap of a map to appear- from the looks of it, she still had another three hours to go. 

She'd thought about setting down a few times, but found herself leery of staying any length of time in an unknown area. She wanted to get there as soon as possible. Because of this, she'd held off on food and drink as long as she could, knowing that there was nothing worse than wanting a piss while balanced on a broomstick.  
She'd packed a few sandwiches, some licorice wands, and a few bottles of butterbeer into her satchel. Hungry and thirsty, Katie pulled out a bottle of butterbeer, the warming charm she'd put on them earlier kissing her hands through her mittens. She took a sip and glanced around her- the clouds were beginning to thicken and gray, and far away, she could hear the distant rumble of thunder. If she didn't hurry ahead of the storm, she'd soon be caught in a downpour.

"Buggerall," muttered Katie. She'd finish the butterbeer, then haul ass to the meeting point. Katie lifted the bottle to take another swig of butterbeer when she noticed something else- dark stains in the clouds, three of them...rapidly approaching. There was no warning as a red burst of light shot past her ear, missing her by inches. Another figure seemed to appear out of nowhere to her left, wand raised, and out of instinct, she chucked the bottle at him, which collided with a satisfying smack, followed by an enraged curse.

Katie dropped altitude sharply and immediately, all thoughts of snatching her wand from its holster put on hold as she grabbed the broom handle for balance. Another blast shot past her, this one green, lighting up the clouds with an eerie emerald light.

Her stomach clenched- it was the killing curse.

"Stun her, you fool!" shouted one. "We'll get no answers from a corpse!”

_Death Eaters..._

_...shit._

Katie rolled and descended again so abruptly she could feel her stomach in her throat, countryside coming into view now that she was free of the cloud cover. She reached for her wand again, fingers closing around the handle and preparing to whip it back, a hex already forming on her lips.

She heard a shout behind her, and suddenly, her right arm was encompassed with such sharp, fiery pain that she almost dropped her wand. Letting out a yell, she kept hold of the handle and turned, shouting "Incarcerous!", but she was casting blindly and did not hold out much hope that the hex had made its mark.

Arm burning from shoulder blade to fingertip, she banked a sharp left, not even bothering to look behind her now as she shot for a clump of trees that marked the end of a farmer's field. She leaned hard into the broom, knowing that to shake even a few of them might give her a fighting chance. Small branches whipped her face as she wove around from tree to tree, barely keeping her broom in line. Katie heard a crash behind her and knew that it was her satchel's contents smashing into the side of a tree trunk and scattering. There was a scream and a sickening thud behind her, and she knew at least one of her pursuers had followed her into the tree cover and crashed.

It would be too much to hope, however, that they had all been as stupid, and she braced herself for the ones that would be waiting for her.

Jerking up on the handle and shooting out of the trees, she dodged two hexes flying up- two of them, no, three hurling at her like bludgers. One attacker flew in hard from her left, raising his wand-

"Avada-"

But Katie was faster. She raised her wand, shouting "Incarcerous!" Ropes flew around her would-be killer, setting him off balance and spiraling backwards in a dead plummet. Katie spared a moment to watch the man and his broom plunge from the sky into the small woods, and had only the smallest of seconds to roll as another curse flew by, narrowly missing her ear. She shot in the direction of that curse, wand extended, and looked straight into Macnair's twisted, sneering face. It was Mox she thought of as she pointed the wand directly between his eyes.

"Furnunculus!" she shouted, dropping altitude again to avoid the jagged purple curse he sent her way and taking momentary satisfaction in his howls of pain.

Turning before the third could blast her, Katie flattened herself as close to the broom as she could, ignoring the searing pain in her shoulder. She leaned forward, conjuring every inch of speed the Firebolt was capable of, and Katie knew if she made a mistake, it would be over, as any sharp turn would surely throw her from the broom with enough speed to break her neck. 

The icy wind stung her eyes, and she closed them, flying blind, waiting for the hex that would surely come, the jet of green light that would mark the end of it-

Moments passed, and when nothing happened, Katie concluded that she was either dead or free of them. She opened her eyes to see nothing but gray clumps of clouds and now, the wet, icy slap of the rain as it pelted her. She did not dare descend now, not with no idea of how far her pursuers were behind her. And she had no real idea of where she was, besides. Shaking all over, she took deep, gasping gulps of air in an attempt to get her breath back, her entire body shaking from head to foot from cold as much as adrenaline.

Tucking her injured arm close against her body, she once again leaned over the broom and urged them both onward, looking for the bright red light that would mark the end of her long journey.


	29. Chapter 29

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“Almost had 'er,” muttered Macnair, holding a cooling charm to his still-blistered face.

“'You'll find 'almost' doesn't interest the Dark Lord much,” snarled Yaxley. “Where's Collons?”

“Dead,” grumbled the injured Death Eater, lowering his wand. “Moron collided with a tree. Broke 'is fucking fool neck.”

“Your ineptitude continues to amaze, Macnair,” said Bellatrix, twirling her wand between her fingertips. “Look at you. All those fantastic beasts under your belt, and you can't catch one wittle, itty bitty witchy anymore?”

Macnair's good eye flickered up to glare at Voldemort's best lieutenant, but he kept his mouth shut around his retort. 

“Next time I see that little bitch, I'll do more than catch 'er,” muttered the wizard, bringing his wand back up to his face. 

“Yeah, it was Bell all right,” spoke up Miles Bletchley, rubbing at his arm where the still-fresh Mark was blistered onto his flesh. “Recognized her right away. Dolohov got her shoulder good, she'll be feeling that one for awhile.” He chuckled. “Should have seen the look on her face when we surrounded her, scared little rabbit-”

“Shut your fucking mouth, can't you?” snarled Marcus Flint, speaking up for the first time since the group assembled. All eyes were on him suddenly, a circumstance he had been deliberately trying to avoid for weeks. 

Bletchley grinned. “Old pet of yours, is she, Flint? Suppose we could let you have a go before we off her, for old time's sake-”

“There are plenty of pure blood witches to amuse you, Bletchley,” replied Marcus coldly. “I'd be careful about your enthusiasm for all these half-bloods you're supposed to be rounding up. That is, if you can catch one.”

Marcus could feel Snape's gaze on him now, an almost physical pressure against his temples. Marcus grit his teeth and turned away. “Besides, Bell's a minor player at best. Shouldn't be be concentrating on the core members of the Order?”

“Trap the young, and the bigger ones'll come for 'em,” replied Macnair. 

“The bitch knows something,” said Bletchley. “Why else would they be sending her on errands for? Send me on it. I'll find her.”

Marcus pointedly turned away from Bletchley, his hands curling into fists beneath the table.

But Miles was like a dog with a rag- he'd caught the edge of Marcus's irritation and was determined to shake it. “C'mon now, we wouldn't have to kill her outright. We could do her like we did her brother, eh Marcus? Hollow her out inside, leave her for a pretty little shell, a little doll you can dress up and play with-”

_St. Mungo's late at night, hovering near the intake to get some word. Marcus quickly turned before Katie came around the counter- thankfully, she didn't see him- she didn't seem to notice much of anything._

_Katie's eyes were tight at the corners and heavily shadowed and she pulled her coat tighter around her, heading for the exit. Marcus knew she had not been sleeping, had been spending every waking moment at her brother's bedside, waiting, hovering, for hope that would not come-_

_Marcus remembered Mox, whole, alive, glaring at him at the Quidditch match, telling him that if he hurt his little sister, he'd kill him, and meaning it, a vein of feeling Marcus knew well, respected even-_

_-Flora, laughing, her arms spread wide as they skimmed the grass on his old broom, holding her tightly so she wouldn't fall-_

_-Flora, screaming, fat tears rolling down her cheeks, reaching for him, tiny hands clasping at air-_

_-Katie racing on her broom, Death Eaters hot on her trial, closing in-_

_-and Mox could no longer come for Katie now, couldn't protect his little sister-_

“Mr. Flint, if you would be kind enough to unhand Mr. Bletchley.” Snape's calm, almost bored voice broke through Marcus's racing thoughts. “ _Before_ he expires, preferably.”

Marcus blinked. Bletchley was at the end of his arm, the wizard's mouth opening and closing noiselessly like a fish, his fingers scrambling to pry off Marcus's hand around his neck.

Bellatrix was laughing delightedly.

Because that was what these people did, they took a thing like love and made a noose of it around your fucking neck and scraped up a seat to watch you choke- 

Marcus blinked and released the smaller boy, who sank against the wall, gasping and sputtering and gazing at Marcus hatefully as he massaged his throat. 

“I believe we all have our assignments.” continued Snape coolly. “Mr. Flint, if you would remain behind for a moment.”

Marcus watched the others as they filtered out, staring at the wall behind his former head of house. 

“Mr. Bletchley-” began Snape.

“It won't happen again,” muttered Marcus, staring at the door.

“-is a fool.” finished Snape calmly. “Be that as it may, it behooves you to exercise some self control.”

Marcus scowled as he regarded his former Professor. “What-”

“For example,” began Snape, and suddenly, those dark eyes were on him, the Headmaster's want tip pointing between his eyes, and Marcus felt himself fall back, fall _inward_ , his thoughts tipping over like a glass of water onto the floor-

_Flora in the ocean, giggling, her small hands splashing as he held her steady against the waves, their mother smiling from the shore as Marcus, older brother, supreme guardian, supervised his little sister's first forays into swimming with a solemn sense of duty-_

_Katie zooming ahead on her broom, those red and gold robes rippling, plait wavering like a ribbon in the wind, and she glanced behind her, grinning-_

_-His father, standing over him, tall, looming, giant, Marcus's eye already throbbing, swelling-_

_"Brains like an ogre, boy..."_

_Holding Katie in the dark, her fingers laced with his as his arm wound around her side. She was fast asleep but he lay awake, feeling her heart thrumming against his hand, that soft, fragile beat, and he remembered being terrified that it would stop, as Flora's had stopped-_

It was a supreme effort to pull away, like breaking through a wave, and Marcus was gasping for breath by the time Snape's study came back into view. He staggered back against the desk, steadying himself. 

“Get the _fuck_ out of my head!” he snarled. “That's none of your fucking business!”

“Privacy is a fool's illusion.” replied Snape evenly. “One nourished by those that have much to lose. Like yourself, it would seem.”

Marcus turned to leave, furious, but Snape's next words stopped him. 

“A piece of advice, Mr. Flint. There are those in this world that would take no greater delight than divining what is most precious to you, if only for the pleasure of taking it. Hide it, if you wish to keep it...even if you must occasionally hide it from yourself.” 

“Why are you telling me this?” asked Marcus, frowning. 

“I once knew a very young, very foolish boy like you.” replied Severus simply, gathering a set of books from a nearby table. 

Marcus looked back, letting out a humorless laugh. “Oh yeah? What happened to him?”

The Headmaster turned away from him without a reply, but in the moment before, Marcus would almost swear he saw a shred of regret on that ever-impassive face.

“You are dismissed, Mr. Flint.”

 

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